THE- 


THE   STRAW 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO 
ATLANTA  •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


THE    STRAW 


BY 
RINA    RAMSAY 


Nefo  g0rfc 
THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

1909 

All  rikn  rtttrvtd 


COPYRIGHT,  1909, 
Bv  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  February,  1909. 


J.  8.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


THE   STRAW 


THE    STRAW 


CHAPTER   I 

GAY  had  been  out  hunting  with  the  Quorn. 
On  the  ride  home  he  had  fallen  into 
the  company  of  two  or  three  kindred  spirits, 
dare-devil  sportsmen,  propounding  the  big- 
gest joke  of  the  season  in  the  confidential 
dusk.  A  word  or  two  had  been  enough  to  fire 
him,  to  make  him,  rocking  in  his  saddle,  throw 
in  his  lot  with  them. 

And  now  the  moon  was  up,  a  winking,  dis- 
appearing moon,  and  the  hilarious  conspiracy 
was  afoot. 

They  had  dined  in  Melton  with  Rafferty, 
the  sapper,  who  was  qualified  to  draw  on  a 
glorious  experience  of  night  alarms,  and  who 
had  ripped  the  lining  out  of  his  dinner-jacket 
to  improvise  masks.  As  he  had  insisted,  they 
might  as  well  do  the  thing  in  style. 


THE   STRAW 

Lord  Robert,  the  instigator,  had  got  rid  of 
his  chauffeur,  sending  him  with  a  cargo  of 
ladies-maids  to  the  servants'  ball  at  Burrough, 
and  had  himself  engineered  his  worst  car  with 
all  imaginable  precaution  into  the  sleeping 
street.  He  was  a  bad  driver  but  full  of  hope. 
They  had  had  one  or  two  lucky  misses  at  the 
turnings,  but  his  erratic  steering  had  been 
triumphant,  and  they  were  at  last  running 
silently  with  hidden  lamps  along  the  pale 
strip  of  the  Leicester  Road. 

"That  villain  Burkinshaw,"  said  Lord  Rob- 
ert feelingly,  letting  her  hum.  "I'll  teach 
him  to  snort  at  a  poor  devil  who's  had  all 
his  family  tin-pots  stolen.  How  could  /  keep 
out  burglars  from  my  ancestral  cave  in  the 
horrible  wilds  of  Wales  ?  Boasting  that  only 
a  fool  is  robbed !  I'd  like  to  see  his  face  to- 
morrow." 

"Still,"  said  Rafferty,  "don't  spill  your  con- 
federates in  the  hedge." 

Lord  Robert  slowed  down  a  bit,  peering 
into  the  darkness  and  dipping  suddenly  off 
the  turnpike  into  the  winding  obscurity  of 
a  rutted  lane.  A  mile  or  two  passed  miracu- 
lously without  misfortune,  and  then  he  ran 
under  the  lee  of  a  thicket  and  shut  off  the 
engine. 


THE  STRAW 

"Come  on,"  he  said  in  a  stage  whisper, 
squeezing  through  the  briars  to  the  moss- 
stained  wooden  rails  that  guarded  the  planta- 
tion. 

"Wait  till  I  find  the  tools,"  said  Rafferty, 
fumbling  in  the  car.  "I've  provided  a  jemmy 
and  a  rope  ladder  and  a  square  of  brown  paper 
smeared  with  marmalade  —  treacle  is  the  pro- 
fessional article,  but  it  wasn't  to  be  had.  And 
I  say,  you  fellows,  kindly  shuffle  your  feet 
when  you're  planking  them  in  a  flower-bed, 
or  you'll  have  the  police  tracking  us  by  our 
boots." 

"Reminds  me,"  said  Lord  Robert  sitting 
on  the  top  rail,  with  an  air  of  unnatural  pru- 
dence. "  I'm  proposing  to  pull  a  pair  of  socks 
over  mine." 

"Oh,  come  on,"  said  Gay. 

He  pushed  into  the  tangle  of  underwood, 
stumbling  over  a  fox-earth  and  bursting  through 
the  brambles;  reaching  a  dim,  but  open, 
stretch  of  grass  on  the  inner  side;  and  the 
others  followed. 

Faintly  visible  on  the  right  was  a  fantastic 
array  of  gravestones,  weather-stained,  leaning 
drunkenly,  reminiscent  of  a  time  when  the  mas- 
sive, ivy-clad  house  was  not  simply  the  hunting 
quarters  of  Burkinshaw.  In  parts  it  had  been 

3 


THE  STRAW 

rudely  altered,  but  in  the  main  it  was  still  an 
ancient  manor,  its  ruggedness  marred  by  the 
long  French  windows  now  fast  shuttered,  that 
had  been  knocked  in  the  walls  on  the  garden 
side.  Lord  Robert  went  up  to  these  with  the 
gliding  tread  of  a  wild  Indian  and  tried  the 
fastenings  with  an  impatient  rattle. 

"I'll  get  into  this  house,"  he  said,  "if  I  have 
to  go  down  the  chimney/' 

"There's  no  hurry,"  said  Rafferty,  cocking 
his  eye  at  the  leaded  diamond  panes  near  the 
roof.  "With  the  whole  staff  footing  it  at 
this  ball  at  Burrough,  and  old  Burkinshaw 
snoring  in  his  upper  chamber,  we  can  go  canny. 
Anybody  staying  in  the  house  ?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  said  Lord  Robert 
carelessly.  "At  least,  no  men.  Stop  that 
young  fool  cackling !  He'll  spoil  it  all." 

The  youngest  of  the  party,  Lord  Robert's 
cousin,  subsided,  stuffing  his  handkerchief  into 
his  mouth  as  Gay,  who  had  been  stalking  pos- 
sibilities, came  back  grinning.  Sure  enough  the 
pantry  window  was  on  the  latch. 

"Magnificent!"  said  Lord  Robert.  "I'll 
have  the  post  of  danger.  Give  me  a  leg  up, 

will  you  ?  What  the  dickens !  Oh,  I  say, 

that's  too  bad." 

He  was  scrambling  up  like  a  cat,   and  an 

4 


THE  STRAW 

unlucky  trail  of  ivy  had  torn  loose  with  him, 
launching  him  backwards.  He  collapsed  into 
a  bed  of  wallflowers  and  sat  nursing  his  knee. 

"I've  lamed  myself,"  he  said  lamentably. 
"Up  with  you,  Gay.  Rafferty's  too  solid. 
Never  mind  the  spoons,  but  carry  off  Lady 
Sarah.  You  can't  miss  her.  She  hangs  in  the 
dining-room." 

Gay  swung  himself  to  the  sill  of  the  un- 
fastened window  and,  thrusting  his  arm  in, 
with  a  wrench  and  a  pull  was  inside.  Tread- 
ing lightly  he  plunged,  with  an  odd  mixture  of 
recklessness  and  caution,  into  the  unknown 
risks  of  the  dead,  silent  house. 

This  darkness  was  close  and  warm,  unlike 
that  outside,  and  the  hush  was  alive.  He 
caught  himself  wondering  what  ghosts  were 
likely  to  rise  up  in  it  and  hinder  him,  and 
there  awoke  in  him  an  altogether  reprehen- 
sible joy  in  the  situation.  He  felt  the  exhilara- 
tion of  the  highwayman  and  the  poacher,  and 
his  spirit  danced,  caught  up  in  the  spell  of 
lawlessness. 

The  place  was  an  irregular  barrack,  rather, 
confusing  to  a  marauder,  the  kitchen  end  of  it 
shut  off  by  interminable  passages  from  other 
regions;     but   more   by   luck   than   knowledge 
he  turned   into  the   right  one   and  lighting  a 

5 


THE  STRAW 

candle  (Rafferty's  providence  had  included, 
but  smashed,  a  lantern)  at  last  reached  familiar 
landmarks  —  the  stuffed  wild  beasts  shot  in 
India  by  Burkinshaw  (who  might  now  be  lurk- 
ing in  his  nightshirt  to  add  him  to  that  collec- 
tion), and  the  grinning  masks  in  the  hall. 
Triumphantly  he  made  his  way  into  the  smok- 
ing-room and  unbarred  a  window,  signalling 
to  the  others  to  stand  ready;  and  then  went 
hunting  for  Lady  Sarah  hanging  in  unap- 
proachable haughtiness  in  the  dining-room. 
His  light  flickered,  throwing  diabolical  gleams 
across  her  painted  face  with  its  aristocratic 
grimness  and  its  moustache  —  Lady  Sarah  had, 
in  her  time,  been  a  witness  to  wilder  work  than 
this  —  as  he  hauled  the  picture  down.  It  was 
heavier  than  he  imagined,  immense  in  its 
antique,  gilded  frame;  but  he  was  undis- 
turbed at  his  work  and  lugged  it  across  the 
hall  into  the  smoking-room,  lowering  it  to  his 
fellow-conspirators  down  below. 

"I  say,"  whispered  Lord  Robert  limping, 
but  bursting  with  delight.  "Just  rummage  a 
bit,  will  you,  before  you  jump.  Give  the 
establishment  a  decently  burgled  air." 

"Right,"  said  Gay.  " 

He  went  back  into  the  hall,  among  the 
glaring  eyes  of  the  tigers.  His  candle,  in- 

6 


THE  STRAW 

cautiously  put  down  in  the  draught,  had  been 
extinguished,  but  he  had  his  matches.  He 
felt  for  it,  striking  flashes. 

How  villainously  the  planks  creaked !  But 
for  that  all  was  utter  stillness.  It  was  half  a 
pity  there  had  been  no  skirmish,  no  alarm.  .  .  . 
His  step  was  careless. 

And  then  he  heard  a  quick  breath  above  him 
and  saw  one  watcher.  The  light  flaring  in  his 
fingers  revealed  her  to  him,  pale  and  brave, 
clasping  the  balustrade. 

The  sight  of  her,  startling  as  it  was,  fixed 
him,  gazing.  She  looked  so  like  a  ghost  and 
still  so  real,  leaning  out  of  the  dark,  making 
it  living  to  him,  clad  in  dim,  blue  silken  stuff; 
a  young  face  with  a  shut  but  trembling  mouth. 
Gay  was  bewitched. 

Then  he  realised  his  own  sinister  appear- 
ance with  Rafferty's  ridiculous  strip  of  black 
satin  hiding  half  his  face,  and  that  one  poor 
candle  casting  its  weird  shadows,  painting 
him  a  ruffian.  In  his  hurry  to  reassure  this 
apparition,  he  forgot  utterly  to  disguise  his 
voice,  gentlemanly,  apologetic. 

"I  won't  hurt  you,"  he  said  hastily.  "I'm 
frightfully  sorry  - 

He  saw  the  desperate  bravery  in  her  eyes 
changing  to  bewilderment,  heard  her  gasp 

7 


THE  STRAW 

with  a  woman's  illogical  impulse,  her  instinc- 
tive siding  with  a  man  in  danger. 

"Oh,  you'll  be  caught,"  she  whispered. 

"I'm  going;  I'm  going.  You've  routed 
me,"  said  Gay. 

He  turned;  she  would  probably  faint  if  he 
stayed  to  parley.  Ye  gods,  what  a  villain  she 
took  him  for !  —  turned  back  blindly  into  the 
room  where  the  rushing  night  air  blew  in. 
Perhaps  she  would  think  he  had  just  made  his 
way  into  the  house.  Anyhow,  she  saw  him  go 
empty-handed. 

He  listened  a  minute,  lingering  unaccount- 
ably, delaying  his  jump.  Possibly  because  he 
heard  a  rustle  on  the  stairs,  and  it  made  him 
curious.  Possibly  because  the  sight  of  her 
had  knocked  him  stupid.  Was  she  actually 
plucky  enough  —  was  she  venturing  down  — 
alone  —  to  find  out  if  he  had  gone  ?  Well, 
she  shouldn't  think  he  was  tricking  her.  He 
set  his  knee  on  the  window-ledge  to  spring 
out  and  follow  the  others  whom  he  could  just 
distinguish  staggering  along,  weak  with  laugh- 
ter, dragging  the  picture  with  them  into  the 
spinney. 

And  then  he  was  arrested,  thrilled  by  the 
touch  of  slight  fingers  on  his  arm;  he  heard 
a  girl's  voice,  low  and  breathless,  too  eagerly 

8 


THE  STRAW 

pitiful  to  know  fear  of  a  man  of  her  own  rank, 
who  had  fallen  so. 

"I've  —  given  you  this,"  she  said.  "It 
might  help;  you  might  —  oh,  I  am  sorry,  I  am 
so  sorry  -  - ! " 

And  she  was  gone  like  a  dream,  and  he  dared 
not  follow,  pursue  her,  explain  to  her  —  dared 
not  do  anything  but  swing  himself  to  the 
grass;  one  hand  closed  mechanically  on  what 
she  had  thrust  into  it.  It  was  not  money. 
She  must  have  caught  up  the  first  trinket  she 
had  of  any  value. 

His  cheek  burned  hot  in  the  sharp  night  air, 
and  he  was  divided  between  shame  and  a  kind 
of  warm  rapture  in  this  adventure.  Without 
any  sense  of  direction  he  blundered  across  the 
garden,  glad  of  the  darkness,  landing  at  last 
among  the  rest  of  them  watching  for  him 
behind  the  thicket.  They  had  packed  Lady 
Sarah  inside  the  motor,  and  Lord  Robert  had 
started  his  engine  and  was  whistling  up  the 
laggard. 

"Whoop!"  he  said.  "In  with  you.  Why, 
man,  we  were  planning  a  rescue.  We  had  no 
manner  of  doubt  Burkinshaw  had  nailed  you 
and  was  sitting  on  your  head." 

Gay  hurled  himself  into  the  car  as  it  started. 
It  was  too  dark  to  see  without  guessing  now 

9 


THE  STRAW 

the  moon  had  gone  down,  and  the  heavens 
were  black,  unpierced  by  any  stars.  Lord 
Robert  peered  ahead,  bent  over  the  driving 
wheel,  running  them  precariously  between 
the  brushing  hawthorn  hedges,  winding  nearer 
and  nearer  without  accident  to  the  less  perilous 
obscurity  of  the  Leicester  Road.  The  wind 
bit  and  Rafferty  pulled  out  his  flask. 

Gay  sat  with  his  arm  supporting  a  weight 
of  tarnished  gilding,  dumb  in  the  midst  of 
their  unhallowed  exultation.  He  could  not 
share  this  thing  that  had  happened  to  him, 
neither  could  he  just  now  whole-heartedly 
play  the  fool.  And  he  had  not  looked  at  what 
he  held  safe  and  secret  —  but  it  felt  like  a  string 
of  pearls. 


10 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  invariable  east  wind  was  king  at  the 
Belvoir  meet  at  Scalford.  The  trees 
shivered  and  the  grass  had  a  wizened  look. 

Horses  could  not  keep  still  with  that  sport- 
ing nip  in  the  air.  They  sidled  and  backed 
restlessly  all  up  the  village  street,  making  the 
grooms'  affectionate  loitering  at  the  public- 
houses  almost  impossible  by  their  cantrips. 
Miles  away  the  road  rang  ominously  hard  with 
a  noise  of  trotting,  varied  by  the  wailing  tune 
of  motors.  All  were  late  and  all  were  hurrying, 
ignorant  that  hounds  had  only  just  turned  up, 
slipping  in  by  the  stack-yard.  The  huntsman, 
ruddy  and  impervious  to  the  blast,  was  ex- 
changing tales  with  the  faithful  who  had  not 
tarried  and  were  warming  themselves  with 
gossip.  In  these  bleak  five  minutes  the  good 
stories  get  a  start  that  carries  them  over  three 
counties  without  a  check. 

A  minute  ago  the  field  had  been  almost 
empty,  though  a  wall  sheltered  the  numbed 

ii 


THE  STRAW 

photographer,  whose  hunting  is  a  chase  of 
celebrities  and  a  wild  escaping  in  and  out 
among  their  horses'  heels.  But  already  the 
scarlet  was  sprinkled  thicker  and  lit  up  the 
landscape,  threatened  as  it  was  by  fugitive 
flakes  of  snow.  On  a  day  like  this  there  was 
no  mistaking  the  pale  Londoner  huddling  near 
the  wall,  feeling  all  this  misery  dear  at  three 
guineas,  eyeing  his  hireling  as  a  treacherous 
enemy  with  whom  he  was  unacquainted,  and 
shuddering  in  his  skin.  The  hardy  follower 
turned  out  with  an  extra  thickness  of  flannel 
under  his  waistcoat  and  an  invincible  com- 
plexion fired  instead  of  shrivelled  by  the 
wind. 

There  are  men  who  can  hunt  with  a  pack 
for  years  and  still  slink  into  the  field  unnoticed, 
but  Gay  had  no  chance  of  that.  He  rode  in 
at  the  gate  hailed  on  all  sides  as  a  prodigal, 
because  he  had  been  missed  of  late.  His  brown 
mare  picked  her  way  with  practised  friendli- 
ness into  the  group  of  squatting  hounds,  but 
the  huntsman  was  being  cross-examined  by 
an  importunate  lady,  who  wished  to  find  out 
the  faults  of  an  animal  that  had  once  passed 
through  his  hands,  and  who  was  not  to  be 
contented  by  his  non-committal  verdict:  "All 
I  can  say  is,  my  lady,  he's  not  your  horse." 

12 


THE  STRAW 

So  Gay  turned  away  and  was  at  once  ac- 
costed. 

"You  villain,  what  do  you  mean  by  desert- 
ing us  ?" 

"Oh,  come,"  said  Gay.  "I've  been  over 
three  weeks  in  Ireland." 

"You  were  out  yesterday  with  the  Quorn." 

"I  can't  be  so  uncivil  as  to  turn  my  back  on 
them,"  said  Gay,  "when  they  are  at  my  door." 

Lord  Robert,  posted  on  a  windy  hillock 
that  raked  all  approaches,  nodded  at  him, 
preternaturally  correct,  stiff  as  a  poker,  the 
last  person  one  would  suspect  of  original  sin. 

"Seen  anything  of  Burkinshaw?"  he  asked. 
"I'm  on  the  look-out  for  him.  There's  an 
astonishing  rumour  going  round  Melton,  and" 
lower  — "  I've  let  out  a  hint  to  one  or  two 
fellows.  Oh,  here's  Maria  !  Done  again,  it's 
the  parson." 

A  respectable  rider  in  a  dark  coat  and 
breeches  came  into  the  narrow  bit  of  lane 
turning  down  to  the  field;  a  figure  not  at  ail 
remarkable  till  she  came  closer  and  you  saw 
that  her  hair,  brushed  flat,  was  tied  with  a 
black  silk  ribbon.  It  was  Mrs.  Burkinshaw, 
whom  for  no  reason,  since  her  name  was 
Elizabeth,  the  hunting  world  called  Maria. 

"She's  riding  that  kicker  Somers  palmed  off 
13 


THE  STRAW 

on  them,"  said  Gay.  "  I  wonder  he  doesn't 
chuck  her  off." 

"Not  he,"  said  Lord  Robert,  "the  weight 
of  her  would  cow  an  elephant.  I  know  how 
Burkinshaw  jumped  at  the  innovation  of  her 
riding  on  a  cross  saddle.  'Perfectly  proper!' 
said  he,  considering  the  sore  backs  in  his 
stables.  It  isn't  the  flighty  ones  take  to  it; 
it's  the  ones  with  sensible  husbands  who  pay 
the  piper." 

"Well,"  said  a  man  at  his  elbow,  "it  must 
be  more  amusing  to  feel  a  horse  between  your 
knees  than  to  be  hooked  on  to  him  as  if  he  was 
a  clothes-peg." 

Lord  Robert,  keeping  his  watch  on  the  gate, 
took  off  his  hat  to  the  lady. 

"Somebody,"  he  remarked,  "asked  me  the 
other  day  why  the  deuce  she  wore  that  black 
bow.  Said  it  was  positively  indecent  to  go 
about  advertising  your  sex  like  that." 

"Oh,  she  doesn't  wear  it  for  that  reason," 
said  Gay.  "  Don't  you  know  Chop,  the  parson  ? 
You  can't  tell  the  two  apart  without  it.  We 
are  never  quite  clear  which  of  them  sports  it, 
all  we  know  is  it's  to  distinguish  them  from 
each  other." 

"And  the  day  before  yesterday  a  farmer 
picked  it  up,"  said  Rafferty  striking  in,  "and 
'  14 


THE  STRAW 

galloped  after  Chop  most  obligingly,  and  said : 
'Beg  pardon,  you've  dropped  your  bow,  sir/ 
Thought  it  some  ritualistic  adornment.  We 
left  the  parson  thanking  him  out  of  the 
Commination  Service,  but  none  of  us  said 
Amen." 

"Who  is  the  girl?"  said  Gay;  "the  girl 
coming  with  Maria?" 

She  had  had  some  difficulty  in  making  her 
horse  follow  the  other  down.  It  was  fresh 
and  skittish,  pretending  to  be  scared  by  the 
flapping  hood  of  a  motor.  So  she  rode  in  by 
herself,  holding  her  whip  and  reins  carefully, 
but  betraying  in  her  look  of  relief  at  having 
controlled  the  creature,  that  she  was  not  quite 
at  home  in  the  saddle.  Two  or  three  people 
smiled  at  her  and  she  smiled  too,  deliciously, 
colouring  a  little.  Something  pinned  Gay's 
attention  to  her  the  moment  she  came  in 
sight. 

"She's  the  girl  I  am  going  to  marry,"  said 
Lord  Robert  promptly,  "when  I  have  dis- 
posed of  the  other  six.  How  is  it  that  most 
of  our  beauties  go  out  like  a  candle  when  you 
put  them  under  a  riding-hat?" 

"I've  heard,"  said  the  man  next  him,  "that 
she  is  an  heiress  that  Maria  —  who  can't  see  two 
impossible  people  without  shaking  them  up 

15 


THE  STRAW 

together  —  is  throwing  to  the  lions.  They  say 
she  has  mints  of  money,  and  Maria  has  booked 
her  to  set  Bill  Lauder  on  his  legs." 

Lord  Robert  whistled. 

"Lauder,  of  all  men!"  he  remarked.  "If 
that's  it  there'll  be  the  devil  to  pay  when  So- 
phia Bland  comes  back  with  a  divorce  in  her 
pocket.  She  won't  let  him  go  without  a 
struggle." 

The  other  man  laughed. 

"Maria  believes  in  the  distribution  of 
wealth,"  he  said.  "Thinks  herself  kind- 
hearted.  There'll  be  a  pretty  fight." 

"Here's  Burkinshaw,"  said  Lord  Robert, 
pricking  up,  as,  with  a  face  of  hypocritical 
sympathy,  he  bore  down  upon  the  victim, 
whose  arrival  was  made  known  by  a  circulating 
grin. 

Gay  kept  aloof.  He  durst  not  make  one  of 
the  audience  collecting  to  enjoy  Burkinshaw's 
furious  recital.  It  wasn't  guilt,  it  was  a  kind 
of  shyness  with  which  nobody,  least  of  all 
himself,  would  have  charged  the  devil-may- 
care,  impecunious  Gay,  who  was  one  of  Maria's 
failures,  having  flatly  refused  to  buy  prosperity 
at  the  hands  of  a  woman,  and  who  had  lately 
come  back  the  same  cheerful  pauper  (after 
spending  two  or  three  unprofitable  years  in 

16 


THE  STRAW 

those  parts  of  America  that  bloodthirsty  writers 
pick  out  on  the  map  to  locate  their  shooting 
stones  in)  to  an  inheritance  worth  little,  and  a 
neighbourhood  that  had  missed  him  sadly. 

He  stayed  on  the  outskirts  of  the  congrega- 
tion, disregarding  Rafferty's  invitation  to  push 
in  and  hear  the  fun,  and  pretending  to  humour 
his  mare  who,  not  being  coddled  in  a  box 
reeking  of  ammonia  and  as  hot  as  an  oven, 
was  behaving  in  the  bitter  wind  with  the 
patience  of  an  unshorn  lamb. 

"And,"  concluded  Burkinshaw  solemnly,  in 
his  loud  bass  voice,  that  even  in  calamity 
sounded  boastful,  "the  rascals  were  no  raw 
hands,  confound  them.  They  appear  to  have 
been  disturbed  at  their  work." 

Gay  looked  over  their  heads  at  the  girl  then; 
he  could  not  help  it.  His  heart  leapt  and  then 
dropped  unaccountably,  because  her  eyes  were 
cast  down. 

"But,"  said  the  pompous  victim,  "they 
got  away  with  a  valuable  historical  painting  — 
the  portrait  of  Lady  Sarah." 

"Shocking!"  said  Lord  Robert.  "Look 
here,  Rafferty  and  I  want  you  to  dine  with  us 
to-night,  in  Melton.  It  will  be  handy  for  you 
to  pop  up  and  down  communicating  with  the 
police.  And  we'll  do  what  we  can  to  console 
c  17 


THE  STRAW 

you.  Hounds  moving  off,  are  they  ?  Mind 
you  come.  It's  a  bit  of  a  secret,  but  some  of 
us  are  getting  up  a  kind  of  a  presentation." 

He  shortened  his  reins  and  dropped  his 
profoundly  sympathetic  tone  for  a  moment. 

"You  treat  your  ancestors  most  disrespect- 
fully, do  you  know  ? "  he  fired  over  his  shoul- 
der. "The  back  of  her's  thick  with  cobwebs." 

Squeezing  through  the  gate  he  was  cut  off 
by  the  press  of  riders  closing  in  on  all  sides, 
clattering  through  the  village,  praying  all  for 
a  stone  fox  in  Melton  Spinney  and  no  dismal 
halt  at  the  bleak  top  corner,  huddling  near  the 
inadequate  shelter  of  that  one  bit  of  untrimmed 
hedge. 

And  the  hunting  gods  were  kind.  Before 
the  tail  of  the  long  procession  had  passed  the 
farm  on  the  rise,  there  was  a  cry  at  the  cover, 
a  noise  of  thudding  hoofs  —  the  imprudent 
charging  down  to  the  brook,  too  hasty  to 
pause  and  listen  before  splashing  through  the 
ford,  and  deceived  by  that  old  trick  of  the 
spinney  foxes  who,  making  a  false  start,  begin 
their  real  journey  in  the  opposite  direction  to 
that  in  which  their  prelude  has  misguided  half 
the  pursuit. 

This  one  had  let  himself  be  seen  dashing  out 
at  the  bottom  to  within  a  yard  of  the  brook, 

18 


THE  STRAW 

had  turned  when  all  eyes  were  gazing  to  track 
his  line  beyond,  zigzagged  rapidly,  and  dart- 
ing in  again  had  spun  up  the  ride  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  cover  and  shot  out  across  the  road 
on  the  top,  now  deserted  It  must  have  been 
music  to  him  to  hear  the  galloping  hundreds 
thundering  down  to  the  bottom  on  either 
side.  But  a  whip,  lurking  on  the  watch, 
called  the  hounds  on  to  him  and  they  took  up 
his  line,  and  flashed  right  through,  over  the 
road,  skimming  the  plough  like  birds,  turning 
right-handed  and  swooping  over  the  further 
hillside  fringed  by  its  line  of  ragged  thorn- 
trees. 

The  field,  circling  round  the  spinney,  gath- 
ered again  and  came  after  like  an  army,  keep- 
ing down  the  turf  and  cramming  into  the  heavy 
bit  of  lane  in  the  dip  that  excused  three  fences. 
Climbing  the  hill  they  scattered,  suddenly  hid- 
den in  whirling  snow. 

For  two  or  three  minutes  the  squall  that 
had  caught  them  darkened  the  earth.  Hounds 
were  inaudible,  invisible  to  the  brave  who, 
winking  fast,  by  instinct  kept  blindly  on.  And 
then  magically  it  cleared  and  Freeby  Wood 
loomed  in  the  distance,  black  beyond  the 
glistening  stretches  of  grey-green  grass. 

"Hallelujah!"  shouted  Gay,  pulling  out  his 
19 


THE  STRAW 

handkerchief  and  wiping  his  eyes  as  he  galloped. 
"There  they  are.  And  running  -  — !" 

Lord  Robert  shot  past  him,  rubbing  his  face 
on  his  sleeve. 

"That  was  a  stinger,"  he  said.  "Ah,  there's 
that  rail.  It's  turned  me  over  before.  If 
Paddy  remembers  it  as  well  as  I  do  he'll  be 
careful.  If  not,  it  means  another  doctor's 
bill." 

He  crashed  sublimely  into  the  rail  he  men- 
tioned, but  it  splintered  harmlessly  as  he  and 
his  chestnut  vanished,  a  vision  of  flying  heels; 
and  the  next  man  veered  from  his  own  line  to 
take  advantage  of  the  sudden  gap.  Gay  had 
shown  the  way  over  without  a  touch;  he  was 
worse  to  follow. 

The  run  was  turning  into  a  steeplechase,  so 
breathless  was  it,  with  hounds  scouring  faster 
and  faster  on  to  a  screaming  scent,  and  the 
east  wind  flinging  back  their  cry  in  the  teeth 
of  pursuit.  It  was  not  a  time  to  diverge  toward 
gates,  nor  even  for  glancing  right  and  left 
in  search  of  the  easy  places  each  man  car- 
ried in  his  head;  it  was  just  up  and  over. 
If  your  horse  couldn't  take  a  fence  clean  and 
pecked  on  landing,  you  made  it  up  between 
this  mistake  and  the  next,  mindful  to  keep  a 
grip  on  the  reins  if  you  found  yourself  in  the 

20 


THE  STRAW 

ditch  —  and  you  hadn't  time  to  think  of  break- 
ing a  collarbone.  For  the  fox  had  been  driven 
straight  through  the  wood,  and  was  keeping 
to  that  good  line  that  means  death  or  Coston 
Cover.  He  flashed  over  the  hillside  like  a 
streak  of  lightning,  ran  down  into  the  valley, 
put  the  brook  between  him  and  his  pursuers, 
and  slackening  as  he  climbed  the  big  pastures 
on  the  slope,  was  run  into  within  two  or  three 
fields  of  triumph. 

There  were  not  many  in  it,  and  there  had 
been  great  grief  behind.  Thirty  minutes  at 
that  pace  had  weeded  out  all  but  the  stoutest, 
had  sprinkled  the  fields  with  stragglers. 

Gay,  who  had  been  down  twice,  but  for  all 
that  had  struggled  up,  slid  out  of  his  saddle, 
and  after  looking  his  mare  over,  felt  himself. 
His  coat  was  slit  up  the  back  and  his  hat  was  a 
concertina. 

"What  a  day!"  he  said. 

"Splendid,"  chimed  in  another  man,  who 
was  staunching  a  smarting  scratch,  and  puffing 
like  a  grampus.  "But  it's  all  very  fine  riding 
on  the  top  of  the  ground  like  this.  Mud  is 
more  agreeable  to  the  ribs." 

Lord  Robert  was  scanning  the  horizon  for 
his  second  horse,  having  much  too  wisely 
ordered  his  man  to  hang  about  down-wind. 

31 


THE  STRAW 

"Awful  thing  superstition,"  he  grumbled. 
"Fm  sure  the  foxes  delight  in  running  bang 
against  it.  What  do  they  care  in  their  hearts 
which  way  the  wind  is  ?  They're  skimming 
close  to  the  ground  themselves;  it's  we  who 
get  all  the  battering  in  a  gale.  I  wish  I  could 
find  a  man  with  the  wit  to  disobey  my  orders. 
I  can't  ride  this  brute  another  yard." 

A  dealer  who  had  come  out  to  give  an  un- 
known quantity  his  first  sight  of  hounds,  and 
had  wonderfully  survived,  drew  his  prodigy 
alongside  Lord  Robert's  washy  chestnut. 

"Care  to  try  him,  my  lord?"  he  suggested 
blandly.  The  young  'un  flung  up  his  head 
snorting.  His  eye  was  wild  and  his  neck  was 
white  with  lather. 

"Thanks;  I  haven't  the  nerves  to  ride  a 
steam  engine,"  said  Lord  Robert.  "There's 
another  squall  coming  up." 

"It  looks  to  me,"  said  his  neighbour,  "as  if 
there  are  enough  loose  horses  in  our  tracks 
already  to  start  a  circus." 

"And  one's  a  side-saddle,"  said  Gay,  desert- 
ing the  happy  band  falling  in  behind  the  hunts- 
man. He  knew  the  beast;  he  had  ridden  him 
himself,  and  sold  him  to  Burkinshaw.  And  he 
felt  as  if  Fate  had  sent  him  careering  riderless 
to  his  hand.  He  began  his  search  with  a 

22 


THE  STRAW 

curious  sense  of  its  inevitableness.  Oddly 
enough  he  was  not  thinking  much  that  she 
might  be  hurt.  Fortune  had  sent  him  this 
opportunity,  and  in  one  breath  he  was  assuring 
himself  that  she  could  not  possibly  recognise 
him  as  last  night's  ruffian,  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  that  now  he  had  his  chance  to  explain. 

There  was  a  fall  in  the  wind,  or  rather  he 
did  not  feel  it,  since  it  was  behind  him,  driving 
him  instead  of  buffeting  in  his  face.  How 
quickly  the  riotous  life  had  left  the  trampled 
pastures  over  which  they  had  galloped !  They 
lay  below  him  like  empty  wastes.  Here  and 
there  the  disturbed  cattle  were  herding  in  the 
corners,  panting  after  a  stampede;  and  the 
sheep  were  still  running  all  together.  There 
was  no  guessing  how  far  her  horse  might  have 
followed  unstayed,  nor  how  far  from  him  she 
might  be  lying  crumpled  under  a  hedge. 

Gay  pushed  on  faster,  burst  through  a  gap 
with  his  two  horses  and  nearly  let  out  a  shout 
when  at  last  he  saw  her. 

She  was  gallantly  trudging  through  the  bents 
and  rushes  that  hid  the  uneven  bottom,  her  torn 
habit  over  her  arm,  her  hat  gone,  her  head  flung 
back,  courageous. 

The  Samaritan  cantered  down  to  her,  want- 
ing no  introduction. 

23 


THE  STRAW 

"Your  horse,  I  think,"  he  said,  as  simply  as 
he  could,  face  to  face  with  her  in  the  daylight. 

"How  kind  of  you,'*  she  said.     "I  am  lost." 

Gay  looked  from  the  darkening  heavens  to 
the  windswept  country  that  was  a  desert  round 
them,  blessing  the  hill  that  shut  away  the 
survivors  of  the  run,  making  for  Waltham 
Thorns. 

"Burkinshaw  had  no  business  to  put  you 
on  this  clumsy  brute,"  he  said.  "I'll  talk  to 
Maria.  He  isn't  a  lady's  horse." 

She  started  at  his  voice,  looking  at  him 
earnestly,  slightly  catching  her  breath  as  she 
spoke  to  him  again.  He  was  stooping  to  put 
her  up  in  the  saddle. 

"Oh,  it  wasn't  the  horse's  fault,"  she  said. 
"I  rode  him  badly.  I  was  frightened." 

"  Frightened  ? "  said  Gay.  The  word  jumped 
out  of  him.  "Frightened?  Toil?" 

His  exclamation  betrayed  him  to  her;  he 
was  sure  of  it,  wondering  what  would  happen. 
For  one  moment  both  were  silent,  and  then 
a  blizzard  was  upon  them  and  the  air  was  thick 
with  snow  that  obliterated  trees  and  sky  and  the 
hill  and  the  world  itself. 

"There's  a  haystack  this  way,"  said  Gay, half 
smothered;  "and  a  hovel." 

They  scampered  frantically  towards  it,  in- 
24 


THE  STRAW 

disti-nct  as  it  was.  The  hovel  was  low  and 
dark  and  they  could  not  ride  into  it  without 
dismounting,  but  at  least  it  was  a  refuge  from 
the  blinding  storm.  With  his  head  bent  Gay 
dashed  out  into  the  turmoil,  pulling  an  armful 
of  hay  from  the  stack  to  stuff  into  the  rude 
manger,  for  his  fellow-fugitive  to  sit  on,  and 
then  stood  with  the  horses,  outwardly  quiet, 
staring  into  the  whirl. 

"There's  blood  on  your  cheek,"  she  said. 

Was  her  voice  for  him  always  to  hold  com- 
passion ?  He  turned  his  head,  still  wondering 
at  himself  and  how  it  took  hold  of  him. 

"It's  nothing,"  he  said.  "Like  a  good  many 
others  I  took  a  toss.  ...  I  should  like  to  ask 
you  ...  do  you  know  who  I  am?" 

"I  knew  when  you  spoke,"  she  said. 

"And  you  are  not  nervous?"  said  Gay. 
"Taking  shelter  like  this  in  a  robber's  cave?" 

"Not  now,"  she  said.  "I  —  I  am  beginning 
to  understand." 

"Are  you  thinking  of  bribing  the  criminal 
to  emigrate  and  lead  a  honest  life  in  a  foreign 
land?"  said  Gay.  The  murder  was  out,  and 
he  felt  extraordinarily  lighthearted. 

"Ah,  don't  laugh  at  me,"  she  said.  He 
thought  her  voice  shook  a  little  as  if  at  a  recol- 
lection. 

25 


THE  STRAW 

"Laugh  at  you,"  he  cried  hotly.  "I'd 

sooner "  and  controlled  himself.  "Then 

you  have  guessed  that  the  lot  of  us  were  taking 
a  rise  out  of  Burkinshaw  ?  You  heard  them 
at  the  meet  ?  You  are  not  astonished  - 

"That  you  look  so  respectable,"  she  said 
gravely. 

Conscious  of  his  damaged  condition  he 
bowed  as  gravely,  but  his  eyes  twinkled. 

"Heaven  be  thanked!"  he  said.  "I  was 
obliged  to  bolt,  letting  you  think  the  worst. 
Tell  me  who  you  are.  I  have  to  restore  your 
charitable  benefaction." 

"I  am  Judy  Stewart,"  she  said;  "the 
Burkinshaws  are  my  cousins." 

"  You're  not  -  '  he  exclaimed,  stopping 
himself  in  time. 

When  was  it  that  Maria,  raiding  his  house 
out  of  pure  curiosity  and  finding  it  upside 
down,  finding  also  three  cattle-dealers  drinking 
whisky  in  the  dining-room,  and  mistaking  them 
for  bailiffs  in  possession,  had  generously  of- 
fered to  marry  him  to  her  husband's  cousin  ? 
A  good  girl  she  had  said,  but  harmless,  with 
a  gun  factory  in  the  background.  It  was  not 
so  long  ago  that  he  could  not  recall  his  own 
lordly  scorn. 

"Yes,"  she  said;  "I  am  that  wandering 
26 


THE  STRAW 

shuttlecock.  I've  no  real  relations;  nobody 
to  sc9ld  me.  That  is  why  I  do  silly  things." 
Faltering,  almost  beseeching,  as  if  troubled 
by  a  vision  of  ridicule,  she  finished:  "You 
won't  tell?" 

"It's  our  secret,"  said  Gay. 

She  didn't  know  —  how  could  she  ?  —  that 
Maria  had  been  putting  her  up  to  the  lowest 
bidder;  that  Maria,  in  her  moonstruck  philan- 
thropy, was  offering  her  to  her  needy  friends. 
And  so  she  had  nobody  on  her  side,  no  rela- 
tions to  scold  her  and  keep  her  safe  ?  A  great 
longing  to  shield  her  seized  him,  himself  im- 
possible, miserably  poor.  She  looked  so  young, 
so  full  of  a  dangerous  confidence  that  had 
never  known  treachery  or  unkindness. 

"You  shouldn't  do  things  like  that,"  he 
said,  following  his  confused  and  angry  thoughts. 
"We're  not  worth  pity.  We're  not  worth 
helping.  None  of  us.  We're  brutes.  Some 
day  you'll  hurt  yourself." 

The  girl  was  startled  by  his  irrelevant  fierce- 
ness, but  instinct  helped  her  to  answer  lightly. 

"Do  you  mean,"  she  said,  "that  if  you  had 
been  a  real  burglar  you  would  have  murdered 
me?" 

"Of  course  I  mean  that,"  he  said,  dropping 
into  mock  seriousness.  "A  reasonable  creature 

27 


THE  STRAW 

would  have  ducked  her  head  under  a  pillow 
and  screamed  for  help."  , 

Through  his  banter  vibrated  an  undertone 
of  worship;  dimly  she  felt  it,  knowing  that 
in  his  soul  this  man  was  not  laughing  at  her, 
but  not  faintly  guessing  what  thoughts  were 
his.  The  wind  whistled  through  the  chinks 
in  the  clay  walls  and  made  her  shiver;  the 
horses  were  stirring  in  thin-skinned  restless- 
ness, rubbing  their  heads  as  if  in  excuse  against 
the  man.  Their  eyes  shone  in  the  semi-dark- 
ness, luminous  and  kind. 

Judy  liked  Leicestershire,  liked  the  quick 
intimacy  that  sprang  up  among  kindred  spirits, 
the  friendships  that  followed  the  accidents  of 
a  day  without  the  suspicious  paving  of  an 
acquaintance;  all  foolishness  when  you  saw 
at  a  glance  what  a  man  was  made  of,  when  his 
risks  were  yours  and  you  lent  each  other  un- 
questioning a  helping  hand;  when  you  could 
read  him  for  yourself  in  a  minute.  She  liked 
the  men.  They  were  so  real,  so  regardless  of 
the  world's  opinions  and,  like  all  sportsmen,  the 
hardest  veterans,  always  young. 

If  there  seemed  to  her  sometimes  something 
wrong  about  the  women,  a  rivalry,  a  hardness, 
the  fancy  passed  over  her  head.  After  all, 
saints  and  sinners,  they  were  good  to  her.  .  .  . 

28 


THE  STRAW 

And  now,  sitting  on  a  bundle  of  hay  in  this 
dark  mud  hovel,  being  taken  care  of  by  a  man 
with  whom  comradeship  had  begun  so  strangely, 
and  who  stood  guarding  the  entrance  in  his 
tattered  scarlet  coat,  like  a  soldier  defending 
her  from  the  blast,  she  was  happy  —  and  not 
surprised.  Idly  she  wondered  what  her  cousin 
had  in  her  mind  when  she  had  pointed  him 
out  at  the  meet,  with  a  sniff  that  was  half 
impatient  and  half  indulgent. 

"That's  Jimmy  Gay,"  she  had  said.  "A 
dear,  but  impracticable.  Quite  impracticable. 
I've  washed  my  hands  of  him." 

But  he  was  the  hero  —  or  should  she  not  say 
the  villain  ?  —  of  Judy's  one  adventure. 

"I'll  send  your  pearls  by  registered  post," 
he  said.  "Commonplace,  but  safer  than  keep- 
ing them  in  my  pocket  till  I  find  a  chance  of 
handing  them  to  you,  though  I  live  within 
a  stone's  throw.  I  can  watch  your  windows 
twinkling  from  my  own.  Poor  old  Burkin- 
shaw  will  get  his  ancestor  back  all  right;  we 
are  bad,  but  we  are  comparatively  honest; 
we  don't  pawn  our  booty.  You  know  why  he 
makes  a  fetish  of  Lady  Sarah  ?" 

"No,"  she  said.  The  squall  was  passing; 
already  the  world  that  had  been  blotted  out 
was  less  invisible,  whirling  still. 

29 


"Well,  she  was  a  gay  old  party  in  the  cen- 
tury she  lived  in,  and  owing  to  faults  of  her 
own  got  into  history.  Burkinshaw's  father 
swore  by  her  as  a  tutelary  deity,  and  carted 
her  about  with  his  family  from  place  to  place 
till  they  settled  in  Leicestershire,  and  some 
self-made  person  he  wouldn't  notice  hired  a 
man  to  write  a  book  on  county  families,  and 
show  her  up  in  all  her  original  wickedness.  It 
was  a  horrid  shock  to  her  pious  descendants. 
But  they  had  the  last  word." 

"How?"  she  said,  falling  into  his  mood. 
His  smile  was  contagious. 

"  Burkinshaw's  parent  posted  off  to  a  literary 
nephew  he  had  disowned,  and  as  the  price  of 
forgiveness  got  him  to  write  a  novel  with 
plenty  of  local  colour  —  and  a  murder  that  was 
committed  in  the  enemy's  Elizabethan  man- 
sion. There  was  an  awful  row  when  pilgrims 
began  to  haunt  it,  snapshotting  at  large,  and 
plaguing  the  inhabitants  to  let  them  gloat  over 
spots  of  blood.  The  thing  got  on  their  nerves, 
and  they  gave  up  and  departed  to  Devonshire, 
leaving  the  Burkinshaws  triumphant  on  the 
field  of  battle." 

As  he  talked  he  was  looking  to  the  horses' 
girths,  tightening  her  curb  chain  a  link  or  two, 
examining  her  saddle. 

3° 


THE  STRAW 

"It's  fine  now,"  he  said  at  last.  "Shall  we 
start  out  and  find  them  ?  They  couldn't  run 
a  yard  in  that;  we  shall  catch  them  hanging 
round  the  Thorns  pitying  themselves." 

"I  would  rather  find  my  way  home,"  she 
said,  standing  up.  "I  am  awfully  stiff,  and  I 
have  lost  my  hat." 

"Tie  a  handkerchief  over  your  head,"  said 
Gay  promptly.  "Oh,  mine  is  bigger  than 
that.  Will  you  have  it  ?  I'll  get  your  hat  if 
it  hasn't  blown  into  Lincolnshire.  Are  you 
stiff,  really?  Too  stiff  to  ride?" 

He  stood  considering  her  as  she  failed 
ignominiously  in  her  effort  to  spring  into  the 
saddle,  smiling  rather  piteously  up  at  him, 
bruised  by  her  tumble.  And  then  he  moved 
out  into  the  field  brandishing  the  red  silk 
handkerchief  he  had  shaken  out  to  put  on  her 
head.  The  storm  had  passed  as  quickly  as  it 
came  up,  and  although  the  wind  rioted  there 
was  not  one  white  feather  in  the  air.  Away  on 
the  right  they  heard  a  trotting  of  many  horses 
and  near  at  hand,  like  an  echo,  the  solitary 
pattering  of  one. 

"That  is  Tokenhouse,"  said  Gay,  pointing 
to  a  huge  umbrella  travelling  on  the  other 
side  of  the  hedge.  "My  lodger.  He  has  a 
knack  of  turning  up  when  he  is  wanted.  He'll 

31 


THE  STRAW 

take  you  home  safe  and  sound,  and  I'll  put 
your  horse  in  here  and  tell  Maria's  second 
horseman  where  he  is.  Do  you  want  a  pin  for 
your  habit  ?  I've  got  a  fine  one  I  was  intending 
to  stick  in  my  back." 

He  buckled  the  reins  hastily,  with  the  help 
of  a  rusty  cow-chain,  round  the  post  that  kept 
up  the  sinking  roof  of  the  hovel,  and  walked 
over  to  the  hedge. 

The  girl's  misfortunes  had  stiffened  her 
gait  into  a  pathetic  hobble,  but  she  reached 
him  in  time  to  hear  him  explaining  the  situa- 
tion to  a  man  in  a  gig  who,  when  she  looked 
at  him  closely,  was  much  younger  than  she 
expected;  a  lean,  clean-shaven,  quiet  man, 
who  had  a  worsted  comforter  twisted  round 
his  neck.  He  glanced  at  her,  a  slight  interest 
quickening  his  curiously  tired  expression. 

"Lord  Tokenhouse  will  take  care  of  you," 
said  Gay.  "Shut  up  your  old  umbrella,  To- 
kenhouse, and  make  room  for  her.  There  is  no 
gate  convenient,  so  if  you  don't  mind,  I'll 
drop  you  over." 

With  gentle  unceremoniousness  he  swung 
her  over  the  barrier  of  thorns  and  then,  get- 
ting on  to  his  horse,  flicked  over  the  hedge 
himself. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  "I'll  go  on  and  harrow 
32 


THE  STRAW 

Maria's  feelings.  What  fearful  thing  shall  I 
say  has  become  of  you  ?" 

Out  of  nowhere  a  brown  horse  came  crash- 
ing into  the  lane,  sending  bits  of  turf  flying 
as  he  was  spurred  along,  pulled  on  his  haunches 
just  in  time  to  avoid  cannoning  into  them. 

"Where  are  hounds?"  called  his  rider. 
"I've  been  hunting  them  high  and  low.  Just 

because  I  was  late !  I  hear  they  have  had 

a  run." 

He  made  an  imposing  figure,  curbing  his 
chafing  beast,  his  mouth  dark  with  vexation; 
a  handsome,  ill-tempered  man.  As  he  spoke, 
he  caught  sight  of  the  girl  and  saluted  her. 

"Anything  wrong?"  he  said.  His  tone  was 
imperious;  he  surveyed  her  with  a  displeasure 
akin  to  the  jealousy  of  possession. 

She  answered  him  with  the  apologetic  hurry 
a  girl  might  use  towards  a  man  who  had,  per- 
haps unacknowledged,  rights. 

"I  have  had  a  spill,"  she  said.  "I  was 
stupid." 

"And  she  has  had  enough  of  it,"  said  the 
man  Gay  had  introduced  as  his  lodger,  cutting 
off  explanations.  "I  am  taking  her  home. 
Keep  it  up,  Lauder;  you'll  find  them  a  hun- 
dred miles  further  on." 

He  turned  half  round  to  watch  the  other 
»  33 


THE  STRAW 

man,  contemplating  him  with  a  curious  crooked 
smile  until  he  was  out  of  sight. 

"So  you  know  Bill  Lauder?"  he  said. 

The  girl  coloured.  Two  men  were  looking 
at  her.  .  .  . 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

Tokenhouse  stooped,  tucking  the  shabby 
bearskin  carefully  round  her.  Then  he  drew 
the  reins  through  his  fingers,  nodding  at  Gay. 

"Hounds  are  creeping  miserably  at  this 
side  of  Stonesby  Ashes,"  he  said.  "  You'll  be 
into  them  round  the  corner.  They  can  do 
nothing  with  this  fox.  You  people  always 
scoff  at  me  when  I  tell  you  scent  depends  on 
the  foxes  and  not  the  weather.  Off  with  you ! 
I'll  take  care  of  her." 


34 


CHAPTER   III 

JUDY  came  down  the  stair. 
Always,  as  now,  she  laid  her  hand  on 
the  rail  with  a  funny  faintness,  imagining, 
living  in  that  adventure;  lifted  it  to  the  pearls 
at  her  neck  and  smiled  a  little  smile,  all  to 
herself. 

There  were  several  men  in  the  hall  below, 
standing  about  the  big  fire,  talking  loudly. 
She  saw  their  faces  beneath  as  she  paused  far 
above  them,  and  their  gossip  came  up  to  her. 
It  was  for  the  most  part  jargon,  but  mixed 
occasionally  with  names  that  were  known  to 
her.  There  had  been  a  wind-frost  last  night, 
sharp  enough  to  make  men  chary  of  risking 
their  best  horses,  and  everybody  had  left  off 
early. 

"Anybody  seen  Lauder?"  Burkinshaw  was 
inquiring,  stirring  his  tea  and  dropping  in 
lump  after  lump  while  his  wife's  back  was 
turned  and  he  could  seize  on  sugar  instead  of 
his  allotted  globule  of  saccharin. 

35 


THE  STRAW 

"No.  He  wasn't  out.  I  heard  he  had  run 
up  to  London,"  said  someone  else,  and  a  third 
struck  in. 

"He  didn't.  He  was  going  out  with  the 
Belvoir;  said  he  was  sure  they'd  manage  a 
gallop  in  the  Vale." 

"If  ever  a  man  was  desperate,"  said  the 
first,  "he  looks  it.  Ruin  staring  him  in  the 
face  at  every  turn.  He  must  have  gone  all  to 
smash." 

"It  was  his  own  fault,"  said  Burkin- 
shaw  magisterially.  "Gambling  and  racing, 
and- 

The  man  laughed. 

"Lucky  for  you,  Burkinshaw,  that  Lauder 
wasn't  in  that  affair  the  other  night.  He'd 
have  helped  himself  to  something  more  useful 
than  your  great-great-grand-aunt.  He's  in  a 
mood  to  stick  at  nothing." 

Burkinshaw  ignored  the  ribald  remark.  He 
was  still  in  a  condition  of  elephantine  uncer- 
tainty whether  to  roar  with  the  community 
at  the  joke,  or  to  rage  at  its  perpetrators.  His 
mind  rocked  between  the  two. 

"After  all,"  said  the  first  man,  "it's  hor- 
rible to  go  under.  And  Lauder  isn't  the  kind 
of  man  —  he  can't  pull  himself  together.  No 
ballast,  nothing  to  keep  him  straight.  He's 

36 


THE  STRAW 

more  than  likely  to  end  it,  one  way  or  another, 
across  a  fence." 

"Sh!"  said  Maria. 

They  started  guiltily  at  the  emphasis  of  her 
interposition,  and  were  dumb,  but  the  fancy 
crossed  at  least  one  man's  mind  that  she  might 
have  hissed  at  them  sooner  —  if  she  had 
really  wanted  to  shut  them  up.  As  it  was  her 
whisper  lent  to  what  they  had  said  impor- 
tance. 

"White  lady,  white  lady,"  said  Burkinshaw 
facetiously,  staring  upwards,  "come  down  to 
your  tea." 

"You  have  got  it  wrong,"  said  Maria.  "In 
the  rhyme  she  was  a  green  lady,  and  she  turned 
into  a  serpent  and  ate  up  the  servant  as  well 
as  the  bread  and  butter." 

"Then,"  said  Burkinshaw  stoutly,  "nobody 
will  insinuate  that  that  version  is  more  suitable 
than  mine." 

Judy  came  down  to  them,  more  like  a  pale 
princess  than  any  serpent.  The  heiress  had  no 
terrors  for  these  men,  married  veterans  who 
saw  in  her  only  a  young  thing  in  Maria's 
clutches,  to  be  pitied  and  encouraged,  but  with 
no  thought  of  rescue.  All  of  them  had  a 
wholesome  respect  for  Maria,  who  had  a 
man's  knowledge  of  outdoor  things,  but  whose 

37 


THE  STRAW 

terrible    firmness    inspired    alarm    in    anybody 
it  struck  her  she  ought  to  settle  in  life. 

Burkinshaw  himself  had  been  heard  to 
thank  heaven  that  he  was  married  to  her;  his 
only  security  against  being  polished  off  in  his 
turn.  And  there  was  a  profane  tale  that 
Maria  had  once  been  caught  shaking  her  head 
disconsolately  over  some  suitable  importation, 
explaining  that  had  things  been  otherwise  the 
lady  would  have  done  excellently  for  Dicky. 

Experience  had  taught  the  onlookers  to 
keep  to  their  own  province.  They  felt  kindly 
towards  the  subject  of  Maria's  generalship, 
but  with  no  more  idea  of  interrupting  her 
march  than  that  of  an  immutable  Providence. 
If  this  girl  were  the  straw  destined  to  save 
Bill  Lauder;  if  Lauder  should  clutch  at  her 
like  a  drowning  man;  and  if  Maria  had  made 
this  salvage  her  business,  it  was  not  theirs. 

"So  Tokenhouse  picked  you  up  the  other 
day  and  took  you  home  in  his  chariot,"  said  a 
man  who  had  put  a  seat  for  her  in  the  hottest 
corner,  and  was  keeping  the  fire  off  her  cheek 
with  a  sporting  paper  (to  which  his  eye  wan- 
dered in  conversation).  "How  do  you  like 
him?" 

"I  like  him  very  much,"  said  Judy;  "but 
isn't  he  rather  odd  ?" 

38 


THE  STRAW 

"Odd?  I  should  think  so.  That  man 
was  the  finest  steeplechase  rider  in  England. 
There  was  no  one  to  touch  him  across  the 
sticks  - 

"  Poor  Tokenhouse  ! "  said  Maria. 

-  Till  one  day  he  was  riding  in  a  match 
with  Bill  Lauder  and  a  few  other  fellows ;  they 
had  a  lot  on  it  and  they  were  all  mad  to  win, 
going  like  blazes,  and  they  got  mixed  up  at 
one  of  the  jumps;  there  were  five  of  them  in 
a  heap,  and  Tokenhouse  underneath.  He  ought 
to  have  been  killed,  but  he  wasn't." 

"I  can  see  it  now,"  interrupted  another 
man.  "Two  of  them  down  and  the  others 
spinning  up  to  the  fence  one  by  one  —  nothing 
on  earth  could  stop  'em  —  coming  over  crash 
on  the  top." 

"Tokenhouse  hasn't  been  on  a  horse  since," 
said  the  man  who  was  telling  Judy.  "His 
nerve  is  gone.  He  was  the  first  down,  and  if 
the  rest  of  them  had  been  professionals  in- 
stead of  crack-brained  lunatics,  they'd  have 
been  warned  off.  Poor  old  Tokenhouse  !  He 
lives  with  Gay  and  saunters  among  us  like  his 
own  ghost  in  the  hunting  season.  They  say 
he  has  a  screw  loose;  that  his  one  amusement 
is  writing  sermons  on  the  wickedness  of  the 
Turf." 

39 


THE  STRAW 

"AH  I  know  is,"  said  another,  "he's  the 
most  extraordinary  chap  with  horses.  Under- 
stands them.  Chucks  away  his  cigarette  at  a 
stable  door." 

"He  is  a  kind  of  confidential  adviser  to  all 
the  men  he  knows,"  said  the  first  man  who  had 
spoken.  "Sort  of  mild-mannered,  quiet  man 
to  whom  you  can  trust  your  secrets.  And  two 
years  ago  he  was  one  of  the  most  reckless 
customers  under  the  sun.  They  tell  stories  of 
Tokenhouse  -  - ! " 

He  dropped  the  subject  for  want  of  words, 
and  looking  over  Judy's  head  at  the  window, 
gave  an  astonished  whistle,  and  ceased  fanning 
the  fire  industriously  under  the  impression  that 
he  was  shielding  her. 

"Here  is  Bill  Lauder  himself,"  he  said. 
"He  looks  as  if  he  has  had  a  hard  day.  This 
isn't  his  way  home  surely  ?" 

Maria  glanced  suddenly  at  her  husband. 

"If  any  of  you  are  going  to  give  me  your 
opinion  about  the  bay,  come  along,"  said 
Burkinshaw,  like  a  lamb.  "  I'm  inclined  to  have 
him  fired.  It's  near  the  end  of  the  season." 

Blindly  grasping  the  signal  that  they  were 
not  wanted,  he  shepherded  them  out,  sweep- 
ing the  latest  arrival  with  them,  his  mistake. 
The  cheerful  masculine  voices  became  distant, 

40 


THE  STRAW 

and  died  away  towards  the  stables.  .  .  .  And 
then  all  at  once  Judy  sprang  up,  with  a  sense 
of  Fate  close  upon  her. 

"  You  heard  what  they  said,  didn't  you  ? 
It's  in  your  hands.  Be  a  little  kind  to  him, 
Judy,"  said  Maria;  and  then  was  not. 

And  still  the  girl  did  not  run  away. 

Lauder  came  into  the  house  alone,  a  splendid 
figure  in  splashed  scarlet,  bearing  himself  with 
a  defiant  swagger  and  all  the  signs  of  having 
ridden  hard;  perhaps  dangerously,  perhaps 
trying  —  how  had  they  put  it  ?  —  to  end  it 
across  a  fence.  The  fire,  more  potent  than 
the  fading  light  without,  glistened  in  his  eyes 
as  in  the  glass  eyeballs  of  the  tigers  lurking  in 
the  dim  recesses  of  the  hall,  the  familiar  tro- 
phies terrible  to  strangers.  He  looked  too  big, 
too  magnificent  as  a  man,  to  rock  on  the  brink 
of  ruin. 

The  girl's  heart  was  beating  with  an  excite- 
ment that  was  half  frightened,  half  fascination. 
It  had  flattered  her  to  watch  his  recklessness 
in  the  field,  to  hear,  while  she  caught  her 
breath  and  admired,  Maria's  cunning  whisper. 
For  Maria  had  been  indefatigable,  fanning  an 
inclination  to  worship  daring,  dazzling  her 
fish  before  landing  her  with  the  fatal  net  of 
compassion. 

41 


THE  STRAW 

"I  want  to  ask  you  something,"  said  Lauder 
hoarsely. 

"Yes  .  .  ."  she  murmured  faintly,  turning 
away  her  head  because  she  could  not  bear  the 
desperate  look  she  must  meet  ...  it  made 
her  shiver.  And  she  was  young;  there  had 
not  been  any  man  yet  to  ask  her  what  she  knew 
this  man  would. 

Lauder  came  nearer  still. 

This  thing  was  so  important  that  his  heavy 
pride  was  broken;  its  urgency  washed  away  in 
the  tide  of  necessity  his  air  of  overriding  ob- 
stacles, of  crashing  mightily  into  Fate.  He 
paled  under  his  tan  and  stammered.  Maria 
had  not  lied;  the  girl  had  his  life  in  her 
hands. 

There  was  no  love  in  his  eyes,  no  passion, 
and  he  did  not  know  how  to  simulate  either; 
hard-driven,  betraying  only  his  desperate  need 
of  her.  He  was  catching  at  a  straw. 

It  touched  her.  Pity  had  always  moved 
Judy  first  of  all  emotions;  she  who  had  wanted 
for  nothing,  who  had  found  kindness  where 
she  looked  for  it,  perhaps  not  quite  knowing 
how  little  she  claimed,  and  who  had  danced 
up  to  womanhood  without  having  to  learn 
in  bitterness  to  battle  for  herself.  And  she 
had  no  vanity  to  accuse  him.  Just  because 

42 


THE  STRAW 

his  want  of  passion  awakened  no  woman's 
instinct,  it  gave  her  no  warning  in  the  shudder- 
ing anger  that  springs  to  life  against  it,  guard- 
ing a  woman's  breast.  Lauder  was  not  a 
lover,  he  was  a  irten  in  dire  necessity  asking  for 
her  help.  The  sight  of  his  hand  unsteady 
made  her  heart  weak  like  water. 

"Will  you  marry  me  ?"  he  said. 

She  put  out  her  hands  to  him  without  a 
word. 

He  did  not  kiss  her.  Instead  he  gripped  the 
fingers  that  lay  in  his  and  took  a  hard  breath 
as  if  he  had  indeed  ended  it  —  one  way  or 
another  —  across  a  fence. 

"I'm  not  worth  it,"  he  said,  in  a  rough 
voice  that  broke  and  was  almost  humble;  but 
did  not  loose  her  hands. 


43 


CHAPTER  IV 

IT  was  said  of  Gay  that  on  coming  into  his 
family  obligations  he  had  blankly  decided 
to  emigrate  and  then,  struck  by  an  inspiration, 
had  walked  out  of  his  front  door  and  walked 
in  again  at  the  back,  proclaiming  that  he  was 
now  landed  in  a  desert  island  without  running 
to  the  extravagance  of  a  voyage,  and  was 
emancipated  from  the  chains  of  convention. 
Symbolically  he  had  wrenched  off  his  knocker, 
and  used  it  in  some  extraordinary  agricultural 
experiment  when  the  blacksmith  asked  for  a 
bit  of  iron. 

His  house  was  an  old  one,  keeping  the 
tumble-down  remains  of  a  former  grandeur, 
and  stood  midway  between  Ashby  Pastures 
and  another  famous  cover.  Originally  it  had 
its  back  to  the  west,  but  Gay's  grandfather 
had  picked  up  the  massive  flight  of  steps  that 
descended  from  the  great  door  and  putting 
them  down  on  the  other  side  of  the  house  had 
knocked  a  hole  in  the  wall,  and  now  the 

44 


THE  STRAW 

stranger  walked  straight  up  into  the  house 
from  the  road.  Explaining  his  alteration,  he 
had  said  that  Leicestershire  houses  had  no 
manners,  and  he  did  not  like  their  rude 
habit  of  turning  their  backs  on  the  passers- 
by. 

In  his  odd  moments  Gay  farmed  more  or 
less  vigorously.  It  was  a  scriptural  amusement 
that  in  no  way  interfered  with  the  business  of 
his  life,  which  was  hunting;  and  his  luck  was 
a  miracle  to  the  many  who  tried  to  combine 
the  two;  retired  soldiers  and  younger  sons 
with  faith  in  their  capacity  and  a  little  money 
to  lose  in  keeping  unprofitable  horses  and, 
theoretically,  profitable  cows.  This  morning 
he  had  ridden  round  his  fields  shepherding  in 
desert-island  fashion. 

With  the  Cottesmore  at  Wild's  Lodge  at 
twelve  he  was  in  no  hurry,  but  scanned  the 
clouds  and  the  dull  sky  cheerfully,  as  he  in- 
spected his  flocks  and  herds  in  a  ragged  old 
coat  that  smelt  of  tar.  On  the  right  of  him 
hung  the  Pastures,  on  his  left,  across  a  bit  of 
fine  jumping  country,  where  the  winter  after- 
noons saw  many  a  frantic  scurry  backwards 
and  forwards,  a  darker  patch.  And  the  same 
road  that  passed  his  house  twisted  and  turned 
until  it  reached  that  of  Burkinshaw. 

45 


THE  STRAW 

Standing  in  his  stirrups  Gay  could  see  it, 
not  half  the  distance  across  the  fields,  sunk  in 
a  hollow,  its  chimneys  rising  to  fix  a  man's 
wandering  gaze. 

He  came  in  and  dressed  himself  with  re- 
markable care. 

"What  are  you  riding  ?"   said  Tokenhouse. 

Gay  pulled  off  his  tie  and  began  to  fold 
another  carefully  round  his  neck.  It  would 
not  lie  smooth. 

"Fanny,"  he  said.  "The  one  I'm  qualify- 
ing for  Burton.  It  rained  last  night;  the  bone 
is  out  of  the  ground.  And  then  the  brown  I 
brought  back  from  Ireland." 

"Staying  out  all  day?"  said  Tokenhouse. 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Gay,  and  then  glanced 
up,  still  worrying  with  his  clothes.  "There's 
a  motor  passing.  Beastly  things.  ...  In  the 
old  days  you  jogged  to  the  meet  with  your 
neighbours  —  now  the  neighbours  whizz  up 
behind  you  and  run  you  down." 

"And  the  girl  you  want  to  ride  with  flashes 
past  inaccessible,  shut  up  in  a  glass  case.  It's 
as  bad  as  witchcraft,"  said  Tokenhouse  with 
a  gently  ironic  smile.  "But  there's  always 
the  ride  home." 

"  Yes,"  said  Gay,  "  there's  always  the  ride 
home." 

46 


THE  STRAW 

He  looked  ten  years  younger  robbed  of  his 
air  of  peaceable  confidence,  reddening,  wist- 
ful, and,  alas,  in  earnest. 

"  Poor  devil ! "  said  Tokenhouse. 

The  Saturday  crowd  was  alarming.  Gay 
could  hardly  make  his  way  through  the  strug- 
gling tides  at  the  cross-roads.  On  all  sides 
arrivals  were  whirring  up,  and  the  grooms 
were  hanging  on  to  their  horses.  The  whole 
world  seemed  to  be  emptying  itself  into  that 
one  field,  lured  by  the  promise  of  the  dull 
heavens,  unsmiling  overhead.  It  was  a  sight 
to  shake  any  Master  and  set  him  devising 
plans.  A  day  among  the  Flats  with  this  huge 
following  meant  a  day  worse  than  wasted; 
foxes  headed,  hounds  overridden,  no  chance 
of  handling  them  or  snatching  a  decent  run; 

Well,  it  must  be  endured  unless !  His  eye 

grew  meditative  as  he  sat  on  his  horse,  sucking 
his  big  cigar. 

In  and  out  of  the  press  Gay  drifted  on  his 
paragon,  the  slim,  elastic  mare,  who  was  out 
to  show  herself  and  was  to  be  sent  home  be- 
fore she  was  tired  in  case  she  acquired  the 
hunter's  wise  habit,  fatal  to  swiftness,  of 
looking  at  her  fences.  He  was  searching  with 
an  eagerness  still  strange  to  himself,  among  all 

47 


THE  STRAW 

these  familiar  faces,  a  blank  till  the  one  face 
shone. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Lord  Robert, 
approaching  on  a  borrowed  steed.  "What 
means  this  haughty  and  far-away  demeanour  ? 
Behold  me  mounted  on  charity,  which  we  all 
know  is  broken-kneed.  Hullo,  Rafferty,  has 
your  horse  settled  down  yet  ?  His  back  was 
very  round  when  we  started." 

"Horrible  brute!"  said  Rafferty.  "I'll  let 
you  have  him  for  a  hundred." 

Lord  Robert  ignored  the  offer. 

"Here,"    he    said,    "comes    Maria,  looking 
awfully    respectable    in    her    breeches.     More 
than  usual.     What  is  there  about  her  to-day  - 
a  moral  atmosphere  —  that  makes  you  think  of 
a  bishop  performing  ceremonies  ?" 

Gay  was  off  like  a  shot. 

"Oho!"  said  Lord  Robert,  and  prodded 
the  man  in  front  of  him  with  his  whip.  "Stand 
out  of  the  light,  there's  a  good  fellow;  those 
tops  of  yours  make  me  feel  bilious." 

The  man,  an  old  enemy,  pulled  round  and 
glared ;  out  of  conceit  with  his  yellow  tops. 

Gay  reached  his  goal,  where  Burkinshaw, 
whose  first  idea  on  arriving  in  the  field  was  to 
find  a  warm  corner  to  stand  about  in,  had 
taken  up  his  position  with  his  back  to  the  wind. 


THE  STRAW 

Maria,  promulgating  views,  was  in  the  thick 
of  the  crowd;  but  the  young  cousin  was  keep- 
ing as  close  to  Burkinshaw's  substantial  form 
as  he,  on  a  fidgety  cob,  would  let  her.  Gay 
was  close  to  her  before  she  saw  him,  and  when 
she  looked  up  and  found  him  at  her  side,  her 
smile  was  shy. 

Something  had  happened  to  check  her  bub- 
bling friendliness,  to  shut  that  mouth  that 
was  made  for  laughter.  An  odd  comparison 
came  into  his  head.  Some  time  last  summer 
he  had  stumbled  on  a  procession,  headed  by  a 
patriotic  schoolmistress,  of  empire-ridden  chil- 
dren, their  little  heads  full  of  incomprehen- 
sible instruction,  their  little  legs  faithfully 
trotting  in  the  dust.  And  Judy's  face  was,  in 
its  young  seriousness,  like  that  of  the  little  one 
who  had  been  chosen  to  carry  the  flag. 

The  absurd  recollection  would  not  leave 
him;  he  felt  a  sudden,  curious  tenderness. 
He  had  caught  up  that  child,  so  proud,  and 
tired,  and  anxious,  tottering  under  an  honour 
too  heavy,  and  lifting  it  flag  and  all  to  his 
shoulder,  had,  to  the  great  scandal  of  the 
schoolmistress,  marched  on  with  the  procession. 
And  he  wanted  to  do  that  now.  .  .  .  He  did 
not  know  what  thing  had  come  to  her  .  .  . 
but  he  felt  the  flag  was  too  heavy. 
E  49 


THE  STRAW 

So  he  tried  to  amuse  her,  wondering,  while 
the  crowd  grew  thicker. 

"You  know  everybody,  don't  you?"  he 
said.  "All  the  lawless  lot  who  come  here  and 
swamp  us,  getting  us  a  bad  character;  we're 
a  frightfully  mixed  assembly.  But  that's  a 
woman  —  look  at  her  well  —  with  the  greatest 
moral  courage  of  anybody  I  know.  She's  the 
Countess  of  Brockton.  Do  you  know  what  she 
did?" 

"No,"  said  Judy,  gazing  at  her.  She  was 
principally  noticeable  for  a  certain  primness. 

"You  should,"  said  Gay.  "She  was  travel- 
ling with  her  daughter  Constance,  a  well- 
brought-up  girl,  most  proper  and  very  helpless, 
and  a  friend  of  hers  —  and  by  some  terrible 
mistake  a  party  of  trippers  were  shoved,  at  the 
last  minute,  into  their  carriage;  very  noisy 
and  rather  —  pleasant.  One  of  them  had  a 
bottle  of  whisky  —  he  was  half-gone  already  - 
and  began  pressing  it  on  the  girls.  Of  course, 
they  refused  with  horror  - 

"Of  course,"  said  Judy. 

"Lady  Brockton  poked  her  daughter  and 
whispered,  'Drink!'  But  Constance  just  sat 
and  stared  with  her  eyes  round  with  terror. 
So  then  the  monster  turned  to  Lady  Brockton, 
leering  and  holding  out  his  bottle.  'Just  a 

So 


THE  STRAW 

little  nip,  lady!'  he  said,  winking  at  the  rest, 
and  pulled  out  the  cork  - 

"How  awful!"  said  Judy,  shuddering  a 
little. 

"She  was  equal  to  it,"  said  Gay.  "'Thank 
you  so  much,'  said  she,  and  accepted  the 
whisky  bottle." 

"And  hurled  it  out  of  the  window?"  said 
Judy,  looking  with  admiration  at  the  heroine. 

"Tilted  it  up,"  said  Gay,  "and  finished  it, 
every  drop." 

"Drank  it?"  said  Judy  gasping. 

"She  did.  The  girls  nearly  fainted.  And 
as  for  the  trippers  they  were  struck  dumb 
with  admiration.  They  simply  gazed  at  her 
speechless  till  the  train  ran  into  a  station.  And 
then  Lady  Brockton  got  down  with  a  great  deal 
of  dignity,  and  muttered  to  Constance  to  hold 
her  hand.  She  couldn't  walk  straight." 

"  But '  said  Judy,  struggling  with  her 

ideas. 

"She  grasped  the  position,  you  see,"  said 
Gay.  "She  saw  if  the  whisky  was  left,  the  men 
would  drink  it  themselves  and  it  would  make 
them  drunker  —  and  still  if  she  broke  the  bottle 
they'd  be  furious  with  her  —  and  she  thought 
they  might  all  be  murdered,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  bad  language,  before  she  could  stop  the 


THE  STRAW 

train.  Brave  of  her,  wasn't  it  ?  One  of 
these  noble  deeds  that  never  get  into  the 
papers.5* 

Somehow  his  nonsense  was  bringing  her 
back  to  him  as  he  liked  to  watch  her,  and  he 
was  glad,  though  ignorant  whether  it  had 
been  a  sad  or  a  happy  shadow.  He  leaned 
towards  her,  careless  of  the  amused  comment 
of  his  world  —  that  world  of  infinite  gossip. 
Self-consciousness  was  not  his  fault.  The 
darling  !  He  would  make  her  laugh  or  die.  .  .  . 

"Who  is  that?"  asked  Judy  curiously.  "I 
haven't  seen  her  before." 

Gay  followed  her  look. 

A  clumsy,  large-limbed  woman  in  a  brown 
habit  was  riding  into  the  chattering  crowd 
that  closed  round  her,  scattering  to  let  her 
through.  As  she  moved  on,  not  troubling  to 
turn  out  of  anybody's  way,  men  talking  deeply 
of  politics  and  sport  looked  after  her,  and  for 
a  minute  or  two  had  to  drop  their  subject. 
A  long  way  behind,  quite  independently,  a 
small  girl  comfortably  astride,  her  gaitered 
legs  sticking  out  manfully  as  she  trotted, 
followed  her  on  a  pony. 

"That  is  Sophia  Bland,"  said  Gay. 

Maria  was  coming  back  to  them,  like  a  hen 
cleaving  the  poultry-yard  to  guard  a  stolen 

52 


THE  STRAW 

nest.     Something  in  the  way  she  fronted  the 
newcomer  intimated  hostility. 

"So  you  are  back?"  she  said,  not  too  gra- 
ciously. 

The  other  woman  nodded.  She  sat  her 
horse  loosely,  as  if  she  had  been  thrown  on, 
and  her  boot  swung  with  a  spur.  She  was 
not  handsome,  but  there  was  charm  in  her 
greenish  eyes,  and  she  had  the  mouth  of  a  bad 
angel. 

"I  came  down  last  night,"  she  said.  "How 
are  you  ?  You  look  oppressed  with  the  cares 
of  state  —  or  is  it  a  revolution  ?  Oh,  by  the 
way,  I've  borrowed  some  spoons  and  forks. 
You  don't  mind,  do  you  ?  I  got  into  the 
cottage  late  and  found  we  had  forgotten  the 
plate-basket.  So  I  had  to  eat  with  my  fingers. 
I  really  can't  go  on  gnawing  chickens'  legs  till 
they  send  it,  so  I  told  Alphonse  to  run  round 
to  you." 

"Of  course,"  said  Maria  hospitably,  swallow- 
ing consternation. 

"The  worst  of  foreign  servants,"  said  the 
borrower  airily,  "is  they  will  talk  English.  If 
they  would  only  stick  to  their  own  tongue 
they'd  be  quite  intelligible.  I  don't  know  what 
on  earth  Alphonse  will  ask  for,  but  he'll  imagine 
he  is  begging  for  spoons  and  forks." 

53 


THE  STRAW 

Maria  could  not  help  looking  the  least  little 
bit  perturbed. 

"The  housekeeper  will  give  him  whatever 
he  wants,"  she  said;  "but  you  know,  Sophia, 
he  terrified  her  last  time  you  were  down  by 
insisting  on  a  bonnet  to  make  a  stew." 

"  But  the  poor  wretch  meant  something  else," 
said  Sophia  Bland.  Her  glance,  too  lazy  to  be 
insolent,  passed  over  Judy.  "Is  she  staying 
with  you?"  she  asked,  and  as  Judy's  cousin 
performed  a  backward  introduction  she  nodded 
condescendingly  at  the  girl.  "Run  in  and  see 
me  any  time,"  she  said.  "I  am  just  below  in 
the  village.  The  first  little  house  you  meet 
tumbling  into  the  road." 

And  then  she  turned  to  Gay. 

"Have  you  seen  Bill?"  she  asked.  "Oh, 
I  wish  you  would  give  me  a  mount  on  that 
thing.  She  would  carry  me  better  than  you." 

She  rode  on,  calling  up  the  child  behind  as 
if  it  had  been  a  little  dog. 

It  was  then  that  Lauder  came  through  the 
block  in  the  gateway  and  approached,  looking 
neither  to  right  nor  left.  The  man  at  Judy's 
bridle  saw  that  shadow  fall  on  her  again  —  and 
he  understood.  He  looked  in  her  face,  so 
startled  that  she  could  not  help  answering  his 
unuttered  question. 

54 


THE  STRAW 

"I'm  engaged  to  him,"  she  said  in  a  breath, 
as  a  child  might  trust  a  playmate  with  some 
tremendous  secret.  And  Gay  dropped  back 
to  fight  himself. 

Lauder  took  his  place,  claiming  her  openly, 
throwing  out  an  intangible  challenge  to  any 
who  might  dispute  his  right.  She  turned  to 
him  in  a  flutter. 

He  towered  above  her  on  his  horse,  a  great, 
big,  pawing  beast,  severely  bitted.  Strange 
that  so  slight  a  thing  as  she  should  be  strong 
enough  to  lift  him  out  of  the  bitterness  of 
despair.  Judy  felt  humble  and  yet  exalted, 
as  if  she  had  done  one  good  thing. 

But  his  brows  were  heavy.  Although  he  had 
come  to  her  side  and  smiled  and  taken  posses- 
sion, he  was  again  looking  straight  before  him. 
He  had  scarcely  a  word  for  her. 

The  throng  was  in  real  motion.  Hounds 
were  moving  down  the  long  furrow  towards 
the  bridle  gate  at  the  bottom,  and  the  thunder- 
ing cavalcade  surged  behind.  For  a  minute 
the  field  was  like  a  whirlpool  and  then  it  be- 
came a  river,  pouring  through  the  narrow  gate. 
A  few  not  caring  to  join  the  crush  and  guess- 
ing at  their  destination,  made  a  circuit;  the 
rest  fell  in  and  pushed  like  sheep. 

Judy,  a  little  slow,  found  herself  among  the 
55 


THE  STRAW 

last,  far  from  Burkinshaw  and  Maria.  Lauder, 
muttering  something  about  his  unruly  brute, 
had  left  her.  She  saw  him  in  the  distance 
thrusting  his  way  along;  and  ahead  of  him  in 
the  press  a  brown  habit,  a  woman  who  looked 
round  and  waved  her  hand. 

"Don't  go  with  the  stream,"  called  a  voice 
to  her  over  the  hedge.  Tokenhouse  was  stand- 
ing up  in  his  gig,  flicking  his  driving  whip. 
"They'll  invest  the  Long  Spinney  so  that  not 
a  fly  can  escape.  Come  round  by  the  road 
and  watch  for  them  on  the  hill.  They'll  do 
nothing  on  the  Flats.  Too  many  asses  out." 

She  turned  back  obediently. 

A  string  of  carriages  rattled  on  the  stones 
along  the  ill-kept  road  that  turned  sharp  on 
the  left  up  a  steep  hillside.  From  the  heights, 
looking  westward,  they  watched  the  sea  of 
riders  overflowing  round  a  spinney,  heard  a 
wild  holloa  that  sent  them  scattering. 

"Where  are  the  hounds?"  cried  Judy,  with 
her  hand  shadowing  her  eyes. 

"Hounds,"  said  Tokenhouse,  "are  swal- 
lowed. You'll  never  see  them." 

The  multitude  was  overrunning  the  country 
in  a  confusion  that  was  ludicrous  at  a  distance, 
pursuing  a  false  alarm.  And  then,  when  the 
spinney  itself  seemed  deserted,  a  red  flash 

56 


THE  STRAW 

issued  from  it,  and  a  string  of  leaping  bodies, 
flinging  themselves  into  the  fallow,  turning 
as  the  fox  had  turned  to  run  up  the  furrow, 
and  gaining  impetus  as  they  ran.  A  man  in 
scarlet  burst  out  of  the  thicket,  another  slipped 
round  the  corner,  the  horn  sounded,  and  two  or 
three  skitters  came  scampering  to  join  them- 
selves to  the  pack. 

"He's  coming  up,"  said  a  shepherd,  standing 
on  the  road  fence,  ducking  and  almost  toppling 
into  the  ditch. 

"There's  heaps  of  time,"  said  Tokenhouse 
to  the  girl.  "Keep  your  horse  quiet.  We 
shan't  head  him.  He'll  cross  the  road  under 
that  split  ash  tree  and  try  for  Laxton's." 

Up  came  the  fox  as  if  shot  out  of  a  catapult, 
the  hill  nothing  to  him,  as  fresh  as  paint.  His 
mask  appeared  in  the  hedge,  his  brush  dis- 
appeared in  the  hedge  beyond;  a  leap  had 
taken  him  over  the  road  so  close  to  them  that 
Judy  started.  And  then  hounds  came  tum- 
bling through,  hot  on  his  scent,  disappearing 
likewise. 

"He's  in  Laxton's,"  said  Tokenhouse. 
"Look  at  them  bucketing  up  the  hill." 

A  desperate  army  of  stragglers,  gathering 
from  all  quarters,  squandering  their  horses  on 
useless  jumps,  flurried  by  the  mistake  that  had 

57 


THE  STRAW 

scattered  them  on  the  wrong  side  and  wasted 
minutes,  swarmed  across  the  flat,  chasing  the 
wiser  regiment  that,  turning  a  deaf  ear  to 
vagrant  holloas,  had  clung  to  the  spinney,  and 
gained  a  start.  These  were  already  up.  They 
came  over  into  the  road,  landing  one  after 
another  close  to  Judy  and  Tokenhouse,  plung- 
ing into  the  field  beyond. 

"Don't  follow  them,"  said  Tokenhouse. 
"He's  in  the  cover.  Hark  at  hounds!  .  .  ." 
And  truly  there  was  an  uproar  in  Laxton's,  an 
angry  tumult  dying  to  a  whimper,  and  burst- 
ing out  again  fitfully  as  the  hounds  scoured  up 
and  down  inside,  got  on  to  him,  and  lost  him, 
and  took  up  his  scent  again.  As  Judy  hesitated 
she  saw  Lauder  bound  over  the  hedge  on  his 
great  beast,  and  keeping  with  him,  stride  for 
stride,  the  woman  in  the  brown  habit.  They 
turned  to  the  left,  catching  the  tune  in  cover, 
and  clattered  down  the  road.  He  had  not  a 
glance  to  spare. 

Tokenhouse  was  standing  up  in  his  gig 
surveying  the  errant  herd  tilting  at  the  fences 
below,  now  more  formidable  for  their  spring 
tidying,  patched  and  staked,  with  here  and 
there  a  rail  put  in  where  there  used  to  be  a 
convenient  gap.  Here  a  man  lost  his  stirrup 
and  rolled  off  mysteriously,  away  from  the 

58 


THE  STRAW 

jump  that  had  undone  him;  there  another 
pitched  over  his  horse's  head.  And  the  good 
riders  came  steadily  on,  clearing  their  fences, 
galloping  like  clockwork,  slanting  up  the  hill. 

"You  had  better  ride  on,"  he  said  to  Judy. 
"They'll  turn  him  out." 

It  was  drizzling.  A  black  cloud  hung  over 
the  Flats,  trailing  on  the  horizon,  and  all  the 
distant  noises  were  ominously  clear. 

Voices  came  up  from  the  bottom  corner 
where  the  road  forked  and  the  troops  met, 
chafing  at  this  check  in  a  dart  that  had  warmed 

o 

up  their  horses  and  made  them  restive.  Judy, 
timidly  joining  the  strange  crowd,  found 
people  looking  at  her.  Some  other  woman 
made  room  for  her  to  stand  in  under  the 
trees. 

"Don't  mind  my  horse,"  she  said.  "He 
doesn't  kick  —  but  his  red  ribbon's  useful. 
People  don't  crush  on  the  top  of  him  in  the 
gates.  So  you  are  the  girl.  Oh,  dear  me,  that 
fox  is  out  already !  I  thought  we  were  going  to 
have  a  good  long  gossip." 

"How  like  a  woman!"  put  in  the  man 
beside  her,  pressing  on. 

Judy  was  borne  with  the  stream,  carried  in 
the  rush  towards  Whissendine,  that  was  as 
bewildering  to  her  as  the  suddenness  with 

59 


THE  STRAW 

which  they  all  whipped  round  on  the  right, 
charging  back.  Burkinshaw  had  mounted  her 
on  a  safe  old  horse,  who  had  a  kindly  memory 
for  his  gates,  and  took  her  to  them,  humouring 
her  with  a  fence  occasionally,  but  letting  her 
know  who  was  master.  It  was  no  use  tugging 
at  his  mouth,  no  good  making  efforts  at  inde- 
pendence. It  was  not  surprising  that  she  was 
never  in  the  same  field  with  Lauder,  that  Gay 
should  fly  past  like  lightning;  that  at  last  she 
should  find  herself  struggling  up  a  slope  with 
the  rain  wet  on  her  face  blurring  the  figures 
dipping  over  the  horizon,  and  no  companion 
but  a  little  girl  on  a  pony. 

The  child  looked  at  her  solemnly,  kicking 
at  her  pony  until  he  was  alongside. 

"I've  lost  Parsons,"  she  confided. 

"Oh,"  said  Judy  politely.  She  recognised 
the  infant  as  the  child  that  had  appeared  at 
the  meet  with  Sophia  Bland.  She  seemed  to  be 
hunting  independently,  an  impish  sprite,  born 
for  mischief,  with  her  mother's  greenish  eyes 
and  an  odd  trick  of  ducking  her  head  as  she 
talked,  as  if  dodging  strangers'  kisses. 

"Parsons,"  she  explained  in  her  piping 
treble,  "is  responsible.  He  hooks  me  out  of 
the  ditches  and  says,  'the-Lord-be-praised- 
I've-got-er.'  It's  delightful  losing  him.  He 

60 


THE  STRAW 

snorts  when  he's  looking  for  me.  He  swears 
too." 

"Oh,  does  he?"  said  Judy. 

"Not  loud,"  said  the  child,  "but  I  know, 

because  he  puts  on  the  damn-look "  She 

paused  and  peered  up  in  the  girl's  face,  not 
wickedly,  but  with  meaning.  "The  look 
mummy  put  on  when  somebody  told  her  you 
were  going  to  marry  Bill.  But  mummy 
laughed.  Parsons  doesn't  laugh.  He  is  a 
serious  man." 

The  girl  was  startled.  Involuntarily  her 
hands  tightened  on  the  reins,  but  her  opinion- 
ated animal  took  no  notice. 

"Bill,"  said  the  child  calmly,  "belongs  to 
us." 

She  jerked  her  wet  locks  out  of  her  eyes, 
and  drove  her  pony  right  into  the  tall  hedge 
before  them.  Somehow  or  other  they  wrig- 
gled through,  and  when  Judy  herself  found  her 
way  into  the  road  that  ran  along  the  top  —  they 
had  simply  made  a  wide  circle  —  she  saw  pony 
and  rider,  none  the  worse,  but  rather  twiggy, 
in  the  road  too. 

Tokenhouse  was  still  posted  on  the  hill-top 
with  his  umbrella  over  his  shoulder,  as  undis- 
turbed as  a  rock  in  a  troubled  sea. 

"Maria  is  looking  for  you!"  he  said.  "She 
61 


THE  STRAW 

wants  to  keep  you  under  her  wing,  but  it's 
impossible.  You  look  tired.  Stay  where 
you  are.  The  fox  has  only  taken  a  short 
excursion,  he'll  be  back  again  in  a  moment. 
Fanty,  you  imp,  come  here.  What  have  you 
done  with  your  keeper?" 

"Slew  him  with  an  axe,"  said  Fanty. 

She  sped  off  suddenly.  The  hunt  had 
twisted  once  more,  and  a  fearful  hullabaloo 
had  been  raised,  triumph  ending  in  disappoint- 
ment, just  beneath  where  they  stood. 

"Gone  to  ground  in  the  Gorse,"  said 
Tokenhouse,  looking  over  the  hedge.  "Maria 
tells  me  you  are  engaged  to  Lauder." 

"Yes,"  said  Judy.  His  expression  was 
graver,  his  voice  kinder  .  .  .  and  the  child's 
queer  speech  was  running  in  her  head.  She 
did  not  know  what  to  make  of  it.  Her  eyes 
must  have  held  wistfulness.  .  .  . 

"Poor  child!"  said  Tokenhouse.  "Don't 
be  angry.  I  am  a  wreck  —  a  cripple  —  no 
more  account  than  a  stone  image.  You  are 
fond  of  him?" 

He  bent  forward.  The  rain  trickled  from 
his  umbrella  as  he  leaned  it  sideways.  His 
slow  voice  had  a  human  note  in  it  that  fright- 
ened her  with  its  kindness. 

"I  —  I  —  don't  know,"  she  said. 
62 


THE  STRAW 

And  then,  scarlet,  she  recovered  herself,  as 
shocked  as  if  she  had  spoken  treason. 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  yes!"  she  cried  hotly,  not 
stopping  to  consider  that  this  odd  acquaintance 
had  no  claim  on  her  confidence. 

Up  from  below  rose  a  new  clamour.  A  fox 
had  made  an  all  but  invisible  passage  slap 
through  the  middle  of  the  wandering  bands 
of  people  lunching  and  changing  horses.  A 
hoarse  shout  awoke  as  he  darted  up  the  hill, 
and  the  hounds  came  screaming  after  him. 
Right  over  the  top  he  glanced,  crossing  the 
road  a  bit  higher  and  keeping  straight  on. 

"A  fresh  fox,"  said  Tokenhouse,  "and  a 
good  'un.  There  he  goes,  over  the  brook  !  No 
more  ringing  this  time;  he's  clear  away." 

Judy  lost  herself  in  the  flood  of  riders  pour- 
ing over  the  hill.  Her  horse,  stirred  to  emula- 
tion, and  going  as  he  liked,  carried  her  for  a 
while  famously.  He  had  taken  it  into  his  head 
to  gallop,  and  took  his  fences  side  by  side  with 
the  flying  squadron,  but  with  a  more  elderly 
precision. 

It  was  a  dizzy  ride,  and  drove  out  of  her 
mind  all  other  things  while  it  lasted.  Nothing 
seemed  to  matter  but  just  to  keep  her  place, 
to  miss  none  of  the  joy  of  this  swinging  race. 
On  all  sides  others  were  coming  up,  overtaking 

63 


THE  STRAW 

her,  passing  her  with  an  encouraging  shout; 
and  she  laughed  back  to  them,  gripping  the 
reins  in  her  two  hands,  forgetting  in  her  ex- 
citement that  nervous  little  clutch  at  the  saddle 
that  betrayed  the  novice,  as  her  horse  rose  with 
her  into  space. 

She  would  have  liked  Lauder  to  see  her,  to 
call  to  her  as  he  went  tearing  past,  but  the 
rate  he  was  going  was  terrific;  he  was  out  of 
sight  in  a  moment. 

Away  in  front  hounds  were  swooping  to  the 
left,  flickering  over  the  railway  line  in  danger- 
ous proximity  to  a  puff  of  smoke,  and  hurling 
themselves  into  a  stiffer,  more  broken  country. 

The  girl's  horse  was  dropping  back.  She 
turned  him  into  the  road  that  lay  almost  par- 
allel with  the  line  they  were  running  and  tried 
to  keep  up;  but  soon  she  lost  sight  of  them 
altogether.  One  by  one  people  fell  out  and 
came  slowly  back.  Two  or  three  women, 
splashed  and  dirty,  stopped  to  speak  to  her. 

"Maria  was  asking  for  you,"  said  one  of 
them.  "I  said  if  we  overtook  you  we'd  ride 
home  together.  She  was  afraid  you  would 
think  it  your  duty  to  follow  too  far.  It's  no 
good  going  on.  They've  left  Gunby  Gorse, 
and  they'll  finish  at  the  end  of  the  world.  We 
shan't  get  in  before  dark  ourselves." 

64 


THE  STRAW 

The  girl  was  glad  of  company,  thinking 
nervously  of  the  long  journey  along  an  un- 
familiar way  beset  with  cross-roads  that  she 
would  have  found  it  hard  to  puzzle  out  alone. 
Only  why  did  they  look  at  her  with  such  a 
queer  expression,  a  kind  of  comical  sympathy  ? 

They  had  ridden  on  a  good  way  before  she 
was  fully  conscious  of  it.  The  dusk  was  creep- 
ing up,  and  the  horses  had  dropped  from  their 
dispirited  homeward  trot  to  a  walk  as  they 
climbed  a  hill.  And  the  woman  on  Judy's  left 
spoke  suddenly  to  the  other. 

"She's  too  young,  Kate." 

"Much  too  young." 

"Am  7  too  young?"  asked  Judy. 

The  first  woman  laughed.  She  had  a  plain, 
weather-beaten  face  and  the  big  mouth  that 
goes  with  abruptness.  The  other  one  was  sal- 
low, and  her  eyes  were  very  tired. 

"Bill  Lauder,  my  child,  is  a  dangerous  ex- 
periment for  a  baby.  Surely  Maria  could  have 
found  some  hard-fisted  woman  -  — !  Don't  be 
offended.  I  am  talking  to  myself." 

The  other  woman  cut  in;  her  voice  was 
smoother. 

"You  mustn't  mind  Augusta.  She  doesn't 
mean  to  hurt  your  feelings.  She  has  no 
manners." 

F  65 


THE  STRAW 

"I  am  always  sorry  for  girls,"  said  Augusta. 
"Hold  up,  mare!  They  are  at  the  mercy  of 
anybody  who  likes  to  push  them  over.  In  the 
Middle  Ages,  now,  you  could  put  a  man  to  the 
proof." 

Judy  felt  somehow  as  if  she  were  a  doll,  a 
puppet. 

"An  extravagant  custom,"  said  the  woman  on 
her  other  side.  "Half  the  men  were  swallowed 
by  dragons  or  spitted  on  lances." 

"And  a  good  riddance,"  snapped  Augusta, 
smacking  her  mare  that  stumbled. 

"/,"  said  the  sallow  woman,  "always  tell  girls 
to  cross  a  street  in  London.  If  the  man  shoots 
ahead,  leaving  you  to  dive  after  him  —  if  he 
claws  at  you,  alarming  you,  saying  you'll  get 
run  over  —  don't  marry  him  for  your  life  !  But 
if  he  takes  you  over  quietly,  not  frightening  nor 
forgetting  you,  whatever  the  turmoil,  and  you're 
conscious  of  nothing  but  in  moments  his  com- 
fortable touch  on  your  arm  - 

Her  voice  failed  and  she  hid  its  unsteadiness 
with  a  laugh.  "I  am  qualified  to  talk,"  she 
said,  "as  one  of  Maria's  blunders.  I  tried 
to  mend  her  mistake  later  on  for  myself,  and 
so  she  can't  be  civil  to  me,  though  Heaven 
knows  -  - !  I  say,  Augusta,  it's  too  bad  to  let 
the  child  walk  into  this  blindfolded." 

06 


THE  STRAW 

"She  thinks  we  are  a  pair  of  evil  prophets," 
said  the  other  woman,  and  leaning  over  caught 
the  girl's  hand  in  hers  and  squeezed  it,  swing- 
ing it  to  and  fro.  "My  dear,  we're  only 
savage  because  we  don't  think  Bill  Lauder 
deserves  his  luck.  Don't  be  affronted  with  us. 
We  can't  help  talking  to  you  as  if  you  were  a 
kitten.  .  .  .  And  beware  of  Sophia  Bland!" 

She  put  her  horse  into  a  trot,  stopping 
Augusta  with  a  warning  shake  of  her  head, 
and  the  three  of  them  travelled  on  with  no 
more  dangerous  discussion.  And  when  they 
had  left  Judy  at  her  own  gate,  they  said  good 
night  to  her  hastily,  as  if  they  were  ashamed. 

There  was  something  wrong. 

The  girl  ran  upstairs  and  changed  quickly, 
hurrying  down  to  watch  for  Maria. 

It  was  still  vague  to  her,  glimmering,  un- 
certain. The  restlessness  in  Lauder's  manner 
when  he  had  come  to  her  —  and  so  soon  left 
her  —  at  the  meet ;  the  queer  anxiety  in  Maria's ; 
Tokenhouse's  question.  All  were  things  little 
in  themselves,  not  worth  brooding  over,  capable 
of  interpretation  —  but  culminating  in  the  blunt- 
ness  of  these  two  women  who  had  always  been 
kind  to  her. 

She  sighed  a  little,  feeling  friendless.  Who 
67 


THE  STRAW 

would  tell  her  the  truth,  explain  to  her,  stop 
the  pain  that  was  not  heartache,  but  hurt  be- 
wilderment ?  Her  lip  quivered  and  she  flung 
back  her  head,  fighting  her  tears,  fingering  the 
pearls  at  her  throat.  .  .  . 

She  heard  the  horses  now,  heard  Maria  and 
Burkinshaw  tramping  in  the  back  way,  the 
nearest  way  from  the  stables,  all  mud  and 
mire.  She  ran  down  the  hall  to  meet  them. 

"Oh,  there  you  are,"  said  Maria.  "Don't 
come  near  me.  I  can't  open  my  mouth  till 
I've  scrubbed." 

She  was  making  for  the  stairs,  but  halted. 

"I  am  ashamed,"  she  said,  "of  the  way  I 
looked  after  you.  But  I  knew  you  would  be 
all  right.  I  asked  so  many  people  - 

Burkinshaw  grunted  heavily  in  the  back- 
ground. 

"Beginning  with  Bill  Lauder,"  he  said. 
"How  many  times  did  you  stop  your  con- 
science by  shrieking  to  him  it  was  his  business  ?" 

"As  many  times  as  I  got  within  earshot," 
said  Maria;  "but  Judy  understands.  She 
knows  a  man  can't  dangle  round  her  when 
hounds  are  running." 

She  departed,  but  her  toilet  was  never  a 
lengthy  one;  a  bath,  a  snatching  at  some 
garment,  and  a  twisting  up  of  her  hair.  In 

68 


t.  THE  STRAW 

a  few  minutes  she  came  down  again,  clean  but 
rampant. 

"That  foreign  wretch  of  Sophia's  !"  she  said. 
"The  villain  has  been  over  and  carried  off 
to-night's  fish  and  a  tweed  skirt,  and  heaven 
knows  what  else." 

Judy,  alone  by  the  fire,  rose  and  came  to  her. 
She  must  speak  now.  She  must  make  Maria 
tell  her.  .  .  . 

"The  servants  would  give  him  their  heads, 
if  he  asked  them  in  broken  English ! "  com- 
plained Maria.  "It's  too  bad  of  her." 

"I  want  to  know,"  said  Judy,  all  her  doubts 
crystallising  in  one  swift  question.  Had  she 
not  been  sitting  forming  it  on  her  lips  for  a 
long,  long  while,  looking  into  the  fire  ?  -  "What 
is  between  her  and  Major  Lauder." 

The  suddenness  of  the  attack  had  Maria  off 
her  guard. 

"What?"  she  said  bitterly,  before  she  could 
check  herself.  "Why,  the  woman  has  been  his 
evil  genius !" 

"Oh,"  said  the  girl,  answered. 

"Yes,"  pursued  Maria  quite  recklessly.  "She 
probably  intends  to  marry  him,  now  she  has 
divorced  her  husband.  But  it's  too  late,  thank 
goodness.  Poor  Bill  is  out  of  her  clutches 
—  saved." 

69 


THE  STRAW 

There  was  a  vindictive  ring  in  her  thank- 
fulness that  Judy  could  not  miss.  Was  she 
then  a  tool,  the  instrument  of  Maria's  private 
vengeances,  and  not  as  she  had  imagined  a 
man's  salvation  ?  She  saw  herself  with  horror 
ignorantly  playing  the  wicked  part  of  robbing 
another  woman.  If  she  had  been  tricked, 
another  had  been  betrayed.  And  she  forgot, 
painting  in  her  haste  this  black  action,  that 
it  was  not  to  Maria's  machinations  she  had 
succumbed,  but  to  the  tremendous  earnest, 
the  desperate  face,  of  the  man  himself. 

"Heavens!  I  am  all  unhooked,"  said  Maria 
sharply;  "but  when  Parker  told  me  of  that 
man's  depredations  I  couldn't  contain  my- 
self." 

She  returned  incontinently  to  the  maid  out 
of  whose  hands  she  had  bounced.  And  the 
hall  was  deserted. 

The  girl's  heart  was  hot,  and  she  was  a  thing 
of  impulse.  One  thought  came  to  her  and 
thrilled  her.  She  would  go  to  the  woman  she 
had  injured. 

"Run  in  any  time,"  Sophia  Bland  had 
said  to  her,  with  careless  hospitality.  And  it 
was  so  near;  a  scant  half-mile  of  semi-dark- 
ness lay  between  her  and  understanding.  Judy 
stood  up,  possessed  with  courage,  and  gave 

70 


THE  STRAW 

herself  no   time   to   turn   coward,    as   women 
should  not,  who  would  stand  by  each  other. 


Sophia  Bland  lay  along  the  sofa  that  stuffed 
half  her  sitting-room;  a  lazy  woman  with 
half-shut  eyes. 

She  had  borrowed  her  house,  as  she  borrowed 
all  she  wanted;  a  convenient  habit  that  had 
come  down  to  her  from  her  ancestors,  famous 
on  the  Border  and  in  ballads  for  raiding  their 
neighbours'  cattle.  Enemies  said  that  she  had 
never  paid  for  anything  in  her  life.  It  was  a 
quaint  house,  so  small  that  all  you  could  do 
when  you  got  inside  was  to  tumble  into  a 
chair,  but  the  chairs  were  so  comfortable  that 
you  had  never  a  wish  to  rise.  She  only  kept 
foreign  servants,  because  anything  that  was 
said  was  audible  all  over  the  house.  An  inter- 
mittent chattering  of  French  and  Italian  in 
the  back  premises  did  not  disturb  her  more 
than  the  unintelligible  chirping  of  cage-birds. 

She  was  expecting  a  visitor. 

He  came  in,  so  familiar  with  the  house  that 
there  was  no  occasion  for  Alphonse  to  inter- 
rupt his  chatter  and  let  him  in.  Knowing 
where  he  would  find  her,  he  strode  thither, 
stumbling  over  the  rug  in  the  passage. 


THE  STRAW 

She  did  not  turn  her  head;  her  hand  clenched 
and  unclenched,  but  her  voice  was  drawling, 
betraying  nothing  but  amusement. 

"If  you  live  to  be  a  hundred,  you'll  always 
fall  over  that  rug,"  she  called. 

"And  you'll  always  let  it  lie  about  to  trip  me 
up,"  said  Lauder. 

"Because  I  should  miss  your  stumble,  and 
your  swear,  and  the  way  you  burst  into  my 
room,"  she  said. 

He  had  shut  the  door  and  walked  to  the 
fireplace,  standing  looking  down  at  her.  His 
manner  was  embarrassed. 

"Well?"  she  said  at  last,  lifting  her  eyes 
to  his. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  fill  this  room  with 
peacocks'  feathers." 

"That  was  always  a  quarrel,  wasn't  it?" 
she  said.  "Do  you  remember,  Bill,  when  you 
first  said  you  couldn't  bear  them  ?  It  was  in 
somebody  else's  house.  .  .  .  And  the  next 
time  you  came  I  had  this  room  stuffed  with 
them  as  it  is.  Do  you  remember  standing  in 
the  doorway  quite  pale  with  superstition,  re- 
fusing to  set  foot  in  it  till  I  gave  you  leave 
to  burn  them  ?  But  you  couldn't  keep  away. 
Bill- 

She  paused,  and  looked  at  him. 
72 


THE  STRAW 

"If  you  like,"  she  said,  "I'll  give  in.  It  was 
a  stupid  trick  to  tease  you,  and  you've  always 
hated  the  things.  I'll  let  you  gather  them  up 
and  take  them  into  the  garden  and  burn  them 
all  to-night." 

"It's  hardly  worth  while,"  he  said. 

Neither  spoke  for  a  minute. 

"Well?"  she  said  again,  in  the  same  mock- 
ing, expectant  tone. 

"I  didn't  stay  to  the  end,"  he  said.  "Not 
much  later  than  you  did.  I  wanted  to  see  you, 
Sophia." 

"Alphonse  heard  you  come  in.  He'll  know 
you  are  dining  with  me,"  she  said.  "Sit  down, 
Bill.  Don't  look  like  a  criminal  in  the  dock." 

"You  came  back  here  sooner  than  you  ex- 
pected," he  said  stupidly. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said.  "  I  heard  I  was  wanted. 
The  world's  so  kind." 

"Damned  interfering,"  said  Lauder,  and 
then,  "Sophia  - 

She  laughed.  It  seemed  that  after  all  he 
was  dumb.  She  was  not  going  to  help  him; 
no,  though  she  saw  him  desperately  trying 
to  say  what  between  these  two  could  hardly 
bear  to  be  said.  She  lay  back  among  her 
cushions  watching  him,  his  darkening  brows, 
his  impatient  hand  pulling  at  his  moustache.  .  .  . 

73 


THE  STRAW 

"Did  you  hear  anything  out  hunting?"  he 
said  at  last. 

"I  heard,"  she  said,  "a  ridiculous  rumour, 
too  extravagant  to  repeat." 

"Well,"  he  said,  "it  was  true." 

She  clasped  her  hands  round  her  knees, 
smiling  into  his  eyes. 

"You  don't  know  what  it  was,"  she  said, 
"or  you  wouldn't  say  that.  It  wasn't  that 
you  are  ruined,  it  wasn't  that  you'd  been  turned 
out  of  your  clubs,  warned  off  the  Turf  —  it  was 
a  wilder  tale.  They  said  you  were  engaged  to 
marry  some  little  fool." 

He  nodded. 

The  house  was  quite  still.  Its  kitchen  chat- 
ter had  been  suddenly  quieted.  Man  and 
woman,  they  faced  each  other. 

"Bill,"  she  said,  "it's  impossible.  Don't 
talk  madness." 

"You  had  to  know,"  he  muttered.  "It's 
come  to  the  worst,  Sophia.  You  had  to 
know." 

"And  so,"  she  said,  "you  allowed  the  public 
to  break  it  —  gently  ?" 

A  dull  red  mounted  to  his  brow;  he  winced 
at  her  tone,  but  his  own  was  dogged. 

"I'd  have  come  straight  to  you,"  he  said. 
"I  didn't  know  you  were  here  till  I  saw  you; 

74 


THE  STRAW 
and  then  with  all  their  cursed  tongues  wag- 


ging- 

"You  thought  I  might  be  too  melodramatic. 

You  thought  you'd  rather  have  it  out  quietly 
by  ourselves  ? " 

Lauder  was  not  subtle.  He  missed  the  warn- 
ing shake  in  her  voice. 

"I'm  glad  you  are  sensible,"  he  said.  "I'm 
infernally  glad,  Sophia.  It  makes  a  man  feel 
less  of  a  brute,  you  know.  It  was  that  or 
ruin." 

"What  is  the  —  person  like?"  said  Sophia 
smoothly. 

"Oh,"  he  said  vaguely,  "she's  quite  harm- 
less." 

"And  I  am  to  whistle  for  a  husband?" 
she  said,  in  the  same  purring  tones.  "Why 
did  you  let  me  divorce  Sandy  ?  He  was  like 
an  umbrella,  an  awkward  thing  to  carry  about 
with  you,  but  useful  to  keep  in  a  corner  and 
hold  over  your  hat  in  the  rain." 

"If  things  hadn't  gone  so  badly,"  said  the 
man,  "we  might-  But  we  could  never 

have  married.  It  would  have  been  ruin,  the 
blackest  ruin.  It  couldn't  be  done." 

"Oh,  don't  apologise,"  she  said.  She  rose 
to  her  feet,  flinging  ofF  the  mildness  that  had 
served  her  to  disarm  the  sullen  temper  he  had 

75 


THE  STRAW 

relied  on  to  defend  him  against  her  tears,  and 
at  last  letting  her  face  betray  her.  "Do  you 
think  I  can't  guess  that  this  is  Maria's  doing  ? 
Will  nothing  teach  that  woman !  It's  her  plot 
to  get  you  out  of  my  dangerous  hands." 

She  came  to  him,  but  not  quite  close,  out  of 
his  reach. 

"And  so,"  she  said,  "you  desert  me  ?" 

He  tried  to  take  her  hands,  but  she  put  them 
behind  her  back. 

"No,"  he  said.  "By  God,  no,  Sophia! 

You're  the  only  woman !  What  is  this 

to  us ?" 

She  laughed. 

"Was  that  in  your  mind  ?"  she  said.  "You 
thought  I'd  forgive  you;  cry  a  little  and  rage 
a  little,  and  then  forgive  you  ?  That  we'd  go 
on  running  our  horses  together  —  people  are 
so  charitable,  who  would  care  ?  —  and  we're 
neither  of  us  particular  about  the  world's 
opinion.  You  took  that  for  granted  ?" 

"You're  hitting  too  hard,"  he  said.  His 
voice  was  hoarse.  "We've  always  been 
pals  — 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "and  you  throw  me  over; 
you  make  me  a  laughing-stock." 

He  moved  then  as  if  he  would  have  liked  to 
hush  her  bitterness  in  his  arms,  but  dared  not, 

76 


THE  STRAW 

afraid    of  himself.     Sophia    came    nearer   still 
and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"I  might  forgive  you/'  she  said.  "I  might 
behave  like  a  woman  and  a  fool  —  if  I  were  as 
fond  of  you,  Bill,  as  you  are  of  me." 

He  had  just  strength  to  shake  off  that  hand, 
but  he  could  not  shake  off  her  spell  with 
it. 

"You  don't  know  what  you  are  doing,"  he 
said,  breathing  hard.  "You»don't  know  how 
deep  I  am.  It's  not  ordinary  want  of  money; 
it's  worse.  Think  of  all  the  straits  a  man  can 
be  driven  to,  all  the  dangerous  tricks  that 
come  easy  in  desperation;  and  don't  tempt 
a  poor  devil  when  you  can't  even  then  under- 
stand what's  hanging  over  him." 

"I  don't  care,"  she  said.  "You  can't  do 
without  me.  We're  too  like  each  other. 
If  you  lose  me  you  lose  half  yourself.  Look 
at  me." 

Unwillingly  he  submitted. 

"It's  all  or  nothing,"  she  said.  "A  few 
ugly  secrets  whitewashed,  a  few  debts  paid  — 
and  a  harmless  idiot  everlastingly  in  your  way 
to  remind  you  how  you  snatched  at  her  money 
...  or  life  with  me.  Bill,  nothing  on  earth 
matters  to  you  but  me.  You'll  go  all  to  pieces 
without  the  one  woman  who  understands  you. 

77 


THE  STRAW 

It's  for  your  sake  as  well  as  mine  that  I  will 
not  let  you  go." 

He  had  underrated  his  weakness.  A  man 
could  not  be  stronger  than  himself.  The 
sordid  barriers  he  had  set  up  went  down  before 
her.  And  she  was  sure  of  him;  she  held  him; 
she  lifted  her  smiling  mouth. 

"We'll  be  paupers,  adventurers,  wanderers  — 
you  and  I,"  she  said  in  a  whisper. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  as  reckless  as  she;  "kiss 
me." 

In  the  silence  chirped  a  shrill,  childish 
voice.  There  was  a  draught  in  the  passage  — 
steps. 

"  D'you  want  mummy  ?  Have  you  come 
to  borrow  Bill  ?  He  is  here,  but  you  can't  have 
him."  And  then,  confidentially,  but  no  less 
shrilly,  "I  was  playing  at  two  frogs.  The 
pillow  is  put  to  bed  and  it  sleeps  like  me.  It's 
so  agreeable  in  the  dark.  You  can't  see  that 
you  aren't  really  things;  and  it's  most  myste- 
rious, hopping." 

"That  imp  of  mine  !"  laughed  the  woman. 

They  heard  Alphonse  running  up  the  passage 
exclaiming,  ushering  a  stranger  —  not  one  of 
Sophia's  intimates  who  would  have  come 
right  in  —  into  the  adjoining  room.  They 

78 


THE  STRAW 

heard  a  young  voice,  not  a  man's  voice,  ex- 
plaining. 

"Damnation!"  said  Lauder. 

The  woman  who  had  won  him  back  saw  his 
face  as  he  loosed  his  arms. 

She  turned  away,  took  three  short  steps, 
and  paused,  glancing  back  at  him  with  her 
hand  at  the  door. 

"Poor  Bill,"  she  said;  "it's  not  worth  it, 
is  it  ?  I'll  see  you  through." 

She  caught  up  her  trailing  skirts  on  her  arm. 
Already  she  had  her  idea ;  her  voice  was  strained 
but  low,  although  her  eyes  were  desperately 
scornful.  Outside  the  hush  was  broken  by  a 
pattering  in  the  distance,  coming  nearer  —  a 
tired  horse  passing  up  the  village. 

"So  this  is  the  —  harmless  person,"  she 
mocked.  "And  she  has  come  here  to  find 
you.  Never  mind,  Bill,  you  shan't  be  com- 
promised. Alphonse,"  -  he  was  grimacing  by 
the  stairs,  and  she  spoke  to  him  fast  in  French  - 
"run  up  to  Lucie  and  tell  her  to  slip  on  one  of 
my  tea-gowns  and  hurry  down  here.  Tell 
her  to  make  loud  conversation  in  this  room 
with  Major  Lauder.  She's  the  Comtesse  de 
-Charny;  she  dines  with  us." 

And  she  ran  out  into  the  road. 
79 


THE  STRAW 

It  was  not  likely  to  trouble  Sophia  that  the 
belated  sportsman  she  intercepted  was  an 
unknown.  He  had  a  red  coat  on,  and  looked 
like  a  gentleman;  he  would  do.  She  stopped 
him  and  took  him  captive.  Tokenhouse,  driv- 
ing through  the  village  in  his  gig  on  his  way  to 
Melton,  was  also  seized. 

"Come  along  in,"  she  said;  "I  want  you." 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked,  looking 
from  her  to  the  startled  countenance  of  the 
stranger  who,  thunderstruck  but  obedient,  was 
dismounting.  "Have  you  turned  highway- 
man?" 

"I'll  tell  you  afterwards,"  she  said.  "Mr. 
...  I  don't  know  your  name,  you  know. 
Duncan,  is  it  ?  Oh,  very  well,  Mr.  Duncan, 
if  you'll  be  so  good  as  to  take  your  horse  through 
that  gate  and  shout,  my  man  will  look  after 
him  —  and  they'll  put  up  your  animal,  Token- 
house." 

"  I'm  going  over  to  dine  with  Lord  Robert," 
said  Tokenhouse;  but  Sophia  took  no 
notice. 

"Look  after  my  prisoner,"  she  said.  "I 
don't  know  who  he  is;  Providence  brought 
him  to  me  and  I  took  him.  I  just  ran  out  and 
told  him  it  was  a  bet  and  appealed  to  his 
sporting  instincts;  and  I'm  doing  the  same 

80 


THE  STRAW 

to  you.  What  luck  you  passed !  Turn  him 
over  to  Alphonse  and  let  him  make  a  toilet  — 
and  take  him  into  the  back  sitting-room  and 
talk,  all  of  you,  till  I  come." 

She  left  them  standing  in  the  road,  and 
Tokenhouse  turned  to  her  other  victim  who 
was  holding  on  to  his  horse,  blank  with  be- 
wilderment. 

"I  say,  you  know "  he  began. 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Tokenhouse  gravely, 
"we  must  do  as  Lady  Sophia  tells  us." 

"Oh,  certainly,"  said  the  other  helplessly; 
and  then  he  brightened.  "Is  she  Lady  Sophia 
Bland  ?  I've  heard  of  her.  Oh,  of  course ! 
But  it  was  a  bit  of  a  startler.  I  don't  know 
my  way  about,  and  this  old  horse  .  .  .  we've 
been  trying  for  hours  to  make  our  way  back 
to  Melton.  Of  course,  I'll  do  it,  if  it's  a 
bet." 

Sophia  passed  swiftly  into  the  house  and  con- 
fronted the  enemy. 

The  girl  was  not  sitting;  she  stayed  like  a 
frightened  bird  in  the  farthest  corner  of  the 
room.  Her  lips  were  pale  and  her  eyes  be- 
seeching. She  could  not  utter  what  she  had 
come  to  say.  And  Sophia  felt  with  an  odd 
G  81 


THE  STRAW 

pique  that  her  generalship  was  wasted.  Here 
was  no  vulgar  suspicion  to  circumvent.  She 
came  forward,  however,  playing  the  part  she 
had  undertaken  with  an  air  of  middle-aged 
good-nature. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  stretching  out  her 
hands,  "is  anything  the  matter?  You  look 
so  tragic." 

It  was  impossible  to  ask  this  woman,  secure 
in  her  attitude  of  amused  encouragement,  the 
question  that  had  answered  itself  for  Judy 
when  she  had  come  here  doubting  and  found 
that  Lauder  was  in  the  house.  She  had  thought 
then  that  it  must  be  true,  had  waited  for  Sophia 
full  of  remorse  and  pity.  But  it  was  no  hag- 
gard, forsaken  woman  whose  reproaches  she 
had  to  bear.  She  was  ashamed. 

"I  came  to  you,"  she  said  brokenly,  "be- 
cause .  .  .  oh,  I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you, 
Lady  Sophia.  Laugh  at  me;  please  laugh  at 
me !  I  didn't  want  to  hurt  anybody  —  and 
they  told  me  that  Major  Lauder  - 

"My  good  girl,"  said  Sophia,  "you  don't 
mean  to  say  you're  jealous  ?  How  frightfully 
amusing !  Of  course,  I  know  all  about  it. 
I  know  you  are  engaged  to  Bill." 

There  was  talking  in  the  next  room  —  in- 
cessant talking;  but  Sophia  was  listening  to 

82 


THE  STRAW 

hear  men's  voices  striking  into  the  untiring 
treble.  How  slow  they  were. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said,  "some  ill-natured 
wretches  have  been  making  mischief.  You 
shouldn't  be  so  credulous;  you  should 
have  asked  Maria.  She  would  have  calmed 
your  scruples.  Did  you  come  rushing  over 
here  to  confront  your  hated  rival?" 

Hejr  tone  of  easy  banter  stained  Judy's  cheeks 
with  scarlet. 

"I  came,"  she  said  faintly,  "to  tell  you  I 
would  —  I  would  —  give  him  up  to  you." 

Sophia  Bland  drew  in  her  breath  sharply,  but 
she  was  smiling  all  the  time. 

"Indeed?"  she  said.  "How  very  magnani- 
mous. But  I  don't  think  Bill  would  like  it. 
My  dear  —  how  young  you  are  ! " 

Men  were  speaking  now  in  the  inner  room, 
their  voices  mingling  with -the  voluble  foreign 
one;  and  Lauder  was  talking  with  them. 
The  two  distinguished  his  deeper  notes,  and 
the  girl  started. 

Sophia  caught  her  suddenly  by  the  arm. 

"Don't  talk  of  giving  him  up,"  she  said. 
"You  don't  know  what  it  means  to  him.  Marry 
him,  marry  him,  I  tell  you!  You  can't  let 
any  schoolgirlish  romancing  interfere.  What 
does  it  matter  what  people  say  ?  They  are  all 

83 


THE  STRAW 

liars.  ...  If  you  don't  marry  him  he'll  put 
a  bullet  through  his  head." 

The  girl  shuddered,  staring  at  her,  afraid  of 
her  in  that  minute  of  terrible  seriousness. 
And  then  Sophia  dismissed  tragedy  with  a 
disdainful  flourish  of  her  hands. 

"There,"  she  said,  "forgive  me.  We 
mustn't  rant,  either  of  us.  But  poor  Bill  is  a 
friend  of  mine,  and  I  stick  to  my  friends. 
One  can  do  that  without  sentiment,  do  you 
know  ?  He  is  here  to-night.  I've  two  or 
three  people  dining  with  me.  We'll  pretend  I 
asked  you  as  a  surprise  for  him,  and  I'll  send 
a  message  up  to  Maria  —  and  he  shall  take  you 
home  after  dinner.  You  silly  girl,  did  you 
run  all  the  way  here  in  such  little  slippers?" 

It  was  a  queer  dinner. 

Lauder  was  in  a  boisterous  humour  that 
Judy  had  not  known  in  him;  but  that  did  not 
seem  so  strange  to  Sophia,  who,  falling  into 
his  mood,  was  gay.  He  could  not  bear  silence, 
but  talked  loudly  —  and  his  glass  was  always 
empty.  The  foreign  countess  carried  out  her 
task  with  aplomb,  fine  in  Sophia's  purple, 
chattering  broken  English  to  a  bedazzled  young 
man  whose  brain  was  confused  by  this  mar- 
vellous wind-up  to  his  day's  hunting  in 

84 


THE  STRAW 

Leicestershire,  and  who  sat  bewitched,  with 
his  pale  straw-coloured  hair  brushed  wet  on  his 
forehead,  wearing  his  hunting  coat  and  a 
skimpy  pair  of  Alphonse's  trousers,  and  looking 
for  all  the  world  like  a  rabbit  in  a  trance. 


"Oblige  me  with  an  explanation,"  said 
Tokenhouse  later  on. 

Sophia  came  from  the  door;  she  had  shut  it 
upon  Judy's  penitent  face,  upturned  and  wist- 
ful, as  she  went  away  with  Lauder. 

"You're  all  the  world's  confidant,  Token- 
house,"  she  said. 

He  followed  her  back  into  the  sitting-room, 
with  its  walls  decorated  with  peacocks'  feathers, 
gleaming  bizarre  and  ominous  everywhere. 
With  the  privileged  closeness  of  an  old 
acquaintance  he  watched  her  face  as  she 
flung  herself  on  the  sofa  and  collapsed  into 
shrieking  mirth.  The  other  guest  had  been 
sent  on  to  his  journey's  end  in  Tokenhouse's 
gig,  leaving  his  exhausted  hireling;  and  the 
foreign  lady  had  returned  to  her  own 
shape. 

"I  am  curious,"  repeated  Tokenhouse  drily, 
rolling  a  cigarette.  "I  recognised  Madame 
Lucie." 

85 


THE  STRAW 

"It's  all  simple,"  said  Sophia.  She  quieted 
herself  with  an  effort.  "Do  justice  to  my 
talents !  That  child  had  heard  there  was 
something  between  Bill  and  —  me.  She  burst 
into  the  house.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  any- 
thing so  frantic  ?  I  had  to  surround  him 
with  chaperons  in  a  minute." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Tokenhouse  slowly,  "why 
you  let  it  go  on." 

"Wonderful,  isn't  it?"  she  repeated.  "And 
I've  only  to  lift  my  finger  - 

She  was  silent  for  a  little  while,  meeting  his 
scrutiny  without  subterfuge,  indifferent  to  his 
judgment. 

"I  know  that,"  he  said. 

She  was  still  struggling  against  her  laughter. 
All  that  was  left  of  it  now  was  like  a  sob  in 
her  throat. 

"You  saw  me  abdicate,"  she  said.  "You're 
my  witness.  .  .  .  It's  freezing,  but  she  will 
be  warm.  I  wrapped  her  up  in  a  cloak  of 
mine.  What  more  could  any  woman  do?" 

Tokenhouse  smoked  on  quietly;  his  ab- 
stracted manner,  that  seemed  to  take  note  of 
nothing,  begat  confidences,  and  had  before  to- 
night quenched  hysterics. 

"Do  you  think,"  he  inquired  impartially, 
"that  it  was  fair  to  her?" 

86 


THE  STRAW 

"Oh,"  said  Sophia  bitterly,  "she  is  madly 
in  love  with  him." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Tokenhouse.  There  was 
doubt  and  an  odd  shadow  on  his  face.  "But 
from  what  I  used  to  know  of  Lauder  he  is  not 
the  man  to  be  kind  to  a  woman  who  has  not 
got  him  under  her  heel." 

"And  do  you  imagine,"  said  Sophia  con- 
temptuously, "that  that  matters  to  any 
woman  ?" 

"Unkindness  ?" 

"We  live  upon  it;  it's  the  breath  of 
Iffe!" 

So  he  was  not  sorry  for  her.  She  was  vaguely 
jealous  although  she  had  not  asked  for  his  pity. 
It  was  not  she,  but  the  insignificant  item  in  the 
play,  the  cipher  that  neither  she  nor  Lauder  had 
taken  seriously  into  account,  that  had  awakened 
the  looker-on's  philosophic  compassion.  That 
was  strange. 

"You  are  looking  very  oddly  at  me,  Token- 
house,"  she  complained. 

"Sorry,"  he  said;  "I  could  not  help  it. 
Really,  Sophia,  I  did  not  know  you  were  so 
remorseless." 

She  laughed. 

"Would  you  have  had  me  take  him  back 
at  her  hands?"  she  said.  "She  came  —  you 

87 


THE  STRAW 

pity   her?    A   quixotic   little   fool   who   would 
throw  herself  into  the  fire  for  strangers." 

Suddenly  she  turned  away  her  face,  flinging 
out  one  hand  to  him,  clenching  the  other  hard. 

"Go  away,"  she  said.  "For  God's  sake,  go 
away,  Tokenhouse.  I  am  going  to  cry." 


88 


CHAPTER  V 

"TTERE  I  stand  under  the  sign  post,"  said 

J.  JL  Lord  Robert,  "calculating  how  many 
of  us  are  dead." 

"As  far  as  I  can  see,"  said  Rafferty,  "we 
are  the  same  old  crew." 

"Man,  you  are  seeing  ghosts.  I  have  been 
attending  funerals  all  the  summer." 

"Don't  be  so  infernally  dismal,"  said  Raf- 
ferty,  who  had  a  liver  and  felt  jumpy  in  the 
murky  November  atmosphere  to  which,  arriv- 
ing from  abroad,  he  had  not  yet  become  ac- 
climatised. 

"If  you  feel  like  that,"  said  Lord  Robert 
with  a  twinkle,  "ride  that  wall-eyed  camel  of 
yours  into  the  middle  of  them  and  rake  up  old 
associations.  Mind  you  ask  Crocker  how  his 
wife  is,  and  Lady  Brockton  if  her  husband's 
out." 

"Dead?"  said  RafFerty,  in  an  awed  under- 
tone. 

"No;  changed  hands." 
89 


THE  STRAW 

He  screwed  his  head  round  to  stare  at  some- 
body in  the  distance. 

Rafferty  had  grown  smugger,  less  enter- 
prising, more  like  a  bachelor  uncle;  he  would 
be  sworn  he  was  as  bald  as  a  billiard  ball  under 
that  too  large  hat.  That  a  man  could  alter  so 
in  one  destructive  summer !  It  was  appalling. 

People  had  not  yet  settled  down,  although 
they  had  been  drifting  back  all  through  the 
cubbing  season.  Those  who  had  arrived  were 
wandering  backwards  and  forwards  exchang- 
ing experiences,  taking  up  the  old  intimacies 
where  they  had  been  interrupted.  There  had 
been  the  usual  General  Post  in  houses,  and  it 
was  necessary  before  all  things  to  make  in- 
quiries or  run  the  risks  attendant  on  turning 
up  uninvited  in  the  house  of  your  enemy,  that 
had  last  year  been  the  familiar  hearth  of  a 
friend.  It  was  easy  to  guess  at  the  state  of  a 
man's  finances  when  he  told  you  that  he  had 
let  the  Hall  and  turned  into  the  Vicarage,  or 
announced  that  he  had  got  an  American  at  his 
place. 

Sometimes  the  luck  was  the  other  way  —  not 
so  often  —  and  those  who  had  spent  last  winter 
crowded  into  a  cottage  were  able  to  do  without 
the  usurper  and  expand  into  the  home  6f  their 
ancestors  for  a  season. 

90 


THE  STRAW 

Here  and  there  men  were  taking  stock  of 
each  others'  horses,  sometimes  charitably  en- 
lightening a  purchaser  upon  the  bad  points  of 
one  with  whom  they  had  in  the  past  been  too 
well  acquainted,  or  jealously  admiring  another 
that  had  slipped  through  their  fingers;  one, 
perhaps,  that  had  come  on  amazingly  since 
they  had  parted  with  him  in  the  spring. 
Occasionally  their  interested  inspection  was 
dashed  by  a  twinge  of  regret.  There  is  no 
sight  more  pathetic  than  the  wistful  look  of  a 
hunter  who  knows  his  business  and  has  passed 
into  bad  hands. 

Lord  Robert  perceived  that  the  man  in  the 
distance  was  the  person  he  took  him  for,  and 
no  impertinent  stranger  in  his  likeness,  and 
hailed  him  gladly. 

"  Let's  have  a  look  at  you,"  he  said.  "  You 
have  got  all  your  arms  and  legs,  and  you 
haven't  grown  a  beard.  They  may  say  what 
they  please,  but  the  joy  of  meeting  familiar 
faces  is  a  doubtful  joy.  Unless  you  keep  your 
eye  on  a  man  all  the  summer  he's  apt  to  be 
unrecognisable  when  you  meet  him  at  Kirby 
Gate." 

"  You  are  the  same,"  said  Gay,  making  room 
for  a  lady  to  pass,  and  betraying  by  his  start 

91 


THE  STRAW 

as  his  hand  went  hastily  to  his  hat,  that  he  had 
been  thrown  out  by  the  new  colour  of  her 
hair. 

"Outwardly,"  said  Lord  Robert.  "Time 
writes  nothing  on  my  cast-iron  cheek,  though 
I've  been  chased  by  a  widow  over  two  con- 
tinents. Tell  me  the  worst  about  yourself. 
Married  ?" 

"Oh,  Lord,  no,"  said  Gay. 

"I  congratulate  you,"  said  Lord  Robert, 
wringing  his  hand.  "I  know  ef  six  poor 
devils  -  - !  As  I  say,  I  nearly  made  one  of 
them  myself.  Shouldn't  have  shown  my  face 
here  again  if  I  had  gone  under.  Two  things 
put  me  off:  the  ceremony  and  the  lady.  If 
you  could  take  chloroform  and  get  it  merci- 
fully over  there  would  only  be  one  objection. 
Have  you  seen  that  little  thing  —  girl  with  a 
gun  factory — who  married  Lauder?" 

"No,"  said  Gay. 

His  horse  shifted,  perhaps  obeying  some  un- 
conscious motion  in  his  rider.  And  there  was 
that  in  his  tone  that  attracted  Lord  Robert's 
notice. 

"She's  down  here,"  he  said.  "They  have 
taken  Burkinshaw's  house  for  the  season. 
They  are  moving  to  Somerby.  That  was  one 
of  Maria's  mistakes." 

92 


THE  STRAW 

Gay  was  looking  straight  before  him.  He 
spoke  casually,  but  Lord  Robert  was  not 
deceived. 

"A  mistake  ?"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "Maria  took  it  into  her 
head  that  nobody  could  sweep  the  chimneys; 
they  meandered  too  much,  had  kinks  in  them. 
She  was  sure  there  were  hidden  stores  of  soot 
all  over  the  house,  and  it  would  go  on  fire  and 
they  would  be  burnt  in  their  beds  - 

"I  thought,"  said  Gay,  "you  were  talking 
about  that  —  marriage." 

Lord  Robert  looked  innocent. 

"Was  I?"  he  said.  "Oh,  that  is  a  worse 
mistake  than  the  chimneys.  I  ran  across  them 
once  or  twice  in  the  summer.  He  bullies  her. 
It's  his  nature.  He'll  never  forgive  her  for 
her  money.  At  least  that  is  my  opinion." 

"The  brute!"  said  Gay. 

"Oh,"  said  Lord  Robert.  "He's  not  the 
kind  to  be  decent  to  anybody  who  doesn't 
stand  up  to  him.  What,  are  they  putting 
hounds  in  the  Pastures  after  we've  been  hang- 
ing round  it  for  half  an  hour  ?" 

He  passed  on,  turning  round  for  a  last  word. 

"Oh,  Gay,  if  you  see  Sophia  Bland  with  a 
millionaire  in  tow  —  you'll  know  him,  he  is  so 
ugly  —  take  an  opportunity  of  urging  him  to  be 

93 


THE  STRAW 

careful.  He's  on  that  mild  old  Roman-nosed 
bay  of  Houston's  —  bought  him  at  Tatter- 
sail's;  and  he's  been  told  it's  a  perfect  de- 
mon." 

But  his  kind  recommendation  was  unheard. 

Gay  had  not  thought  himself  such  an  abso- 
lute fool. 

True,  he  had  often  looked  over  his  fields 
at  the  house  that  had  passed  from  Burkin- 
shaw's  occupation  into  Lauder's.  There  was 
no  reason  he  should  not  look.  He  tried  to  con- 
vince himself  that  one  long,  dull  summer  had 
laid  the  ghost  of  his  brief  incursion  into  ro- 
mance. What  was  the  matter  with  him  ? 

He  had  not  even  seen  her  yet;  not  seen  her 
since  she  married.  Perhaps  she  had  forgotten 
his  face. 

He  remembered  how  she  used  to  look  at 
strangers.  She  had  not  acquired  that  formi- 
dable blankness  that  other  women  assumed. 
There  was  something  of  the  child  in  her  expec- 
tation ;  as  if  she  were  only  wanting  encourage- 
ment to  break  into  a  smile  at  all  the  world. 
Gay  felt  he  could  just  bear  that  she  should  look 
at  him  like  that. 

Sophia  Bland  was  coming  up  the  road  with 
a  man  in  attendance,  joining  the  little  group 
at  the  cross-roads.  The  horse  she  was  riding 

94 


THE  STRAW 

had  not  carried  a  habit  before,  and  kept  glanc- 
ing round  at  her  in  not  altogether  pleased 
astonishment.  The  man  who  seemed  to  be- 
long to  her  was  a  stout  man  with  a  chalky 
face,  who  was  absorbed  in  keeping  a  sharp 
look-out  for  vagaries  on  the  part  of  his  steed, 
now  behaving  like  a  lamb.  Sophia  drew  in 
beside  Gay.  Her  eyes  were  restless. 

"What  are  they  doing?"  she  said.  "Are 
they  going  to  find  ?  Is  it  cub-hunting,  or 
what?" 

"I  believe  we  are  serious,"  said  Gay,  "but 
you  know,  once  we  get  hung  up  in  Ashby 
Pastures !" 

Parties  were  wandering  up  and  down.  There 
was  a  whimper  in  the  cover;  hounds  were 
ranging  hopefully  in  the  blind  undergrowth. 
But  nobody  expected  the  luck  of  an  imme- 
diate start. 

"Let's  move  on  into  the  field,"  said  Sophia. 
The  man  with  her  demurred. 

"There  is  a  crowd  in  there,"  he  said.  "I 
don't  like  to  take  this  horse  among  them.  It's 
the  first  time  I've  had  him  out,  and  I'm  told 
he's  vicious." 

"He  doesn't  look  it,"  said  Gay. 

"I  didn't  know  of  it  before,"  said  his  owner; 
"but  if  you  examine  him  you  see  he  has  a 

95 


THE  STRAW 

treacherous  eye.  More  than  one  man  has 
come  up  and  warned  me  since  I  came  out." 

A  smothered  chuckle  in  the  background  ex- 
plained matters  to  Gay. 

"Send  him  home,"  said  Sophia  impa- 
tiently. 

"Not  before  I  conquer  him,"  said  the  mill- 
ionaire. Gay  was  instantly  reminded  of  a 
photograph  in  a  newspaper,  representing  this 
man  as  a  giant  controlling  the  destinies  of 
a  continent,  ruling  thousands  with  a  rod  of 
iron.  The  colossal  mind  was  at  work,  antici- 
pating a  struggle  on  a  minor  scale.  He 
laughed. 

And  then  he  knew  by  his  leaping  pulses  who 
it  was  that  was  coming.  She  at  last.  .  .  . 

Sophia  had  changed  her  mind.  She  was 
not  riding  on.  She,  too,  was  watching  the 
approaching  figures.  At  the  cross-roads  you 
could  see  all  comers,  sweep  the  country  with 
its  running  lines  of  hedges,  here  and  there 
red  as  rust,  and  the  rain-clouds  trailing  across 
like  smoke. 

She  said  a  word  to  her  neighbour  and  reined 
in  close  to  him,  parading  their  intimacy.  As 
Lauder  and  his  wife  passed  by  she  bent  and 
again  said  a  word  to  her  neighbour.  .  .  .  The 

96 


THE  STRAW 

man,  who  had  slackened  instinctively,  rode  on, 
and  his  brow  was  sullen. 

Gay  never  saw  him.  His  gaze  was  riveted  on 
the  one  face,  wondering.  Was  this  Judy  ? 

All  the  laughter,  all  the  gracious  impulsiveness 
was  gone  from  her  face.  It  was  still  sweet,  but 
with  an  unhappy  sweetness.  What  had  the  man 
done  to  her  ? 

Without  knowing  how,  he  found  himself  at 
her  side. 

"Oh!"  she  said. 

She  had  not  forgotten  him.  It  was  joy  un- 
imaginable, driving  out  the  anger  in  his  soul, 
to  see  her  light  up  at  the  sight  of  him,  find- 
ing him  again,  a  friend  who  had  laughed  with 
her,  been  careless  with  her,  a  hundred  years 
ago. 

"  So  you  have  come  back  to  us,"  he  said. 
"We  are  all  —  glad  to  have  you.  What  have 
you  been  doing  to  yourself?" 

"Nothing,"  she  said  faintly.     "Nothing." 

"The  fox  is  playing  hide-and-seek  in  there," 
he  said.  "Stand  in  under  the  trees  and 
watch.  You'd  like  it.  There  he  goes.  No, 
they're  not  killing  him.  Why,  the  safest  place 
for  a  fox,  in  cover,  is  in  the  middle  of  the 
pack." 

He  hardly  knew  what  he  was  saying  as  he 
H  97 


THE  STRAW 

piloted  her  into  the  field.  She  had  always 
been  shy  in  gateways,  afraid  of  her  horse  rub- 
bing against  other  horses.  .  .  .  He  neither 
knew  nor  cared  what  had  become  of  Lauder. 

All  those  who  were  not  engaged  in  wandering 
in  and  out  of  the  cover,  losing  themselves  in 
the  twisting  rides  that,  instead  of  traversing 
the  wood,  wound  deeper  and  deeper  in,  had 
gathered  at  the  top  corner  in  a  swarm.  The 
fox  was  meant  to  break  out  below,  but  re- 
fused, and  was  being  rushed  from  end  to  end 
with  hounds  scurrying  at  his  heels,  all  but 
tumbling  over  him  in  a  sudden  turn.  There 
was  a  mad  rustle  amongst  the  fallen  leaves 
and  grasses,  an  occasional  flash  of  reddish- 
brown,  and  then  a  disconcerting  silence. 

Judy  leaned  over  her  horse's  neck,  gazing  in. 
Now  and  then  a  puzzled  hound  came  out 
beside  her  and  looked  plaintively  in  her 
face. 

An  urchin  had  thrown  himself  into  the 
wood,  ragged,  enthusiastic,  plunging  right 
and  left  through  the  briars,  snuffing  like  a 
dog.  "I  smell  un  —  I  smell  un!"  he  cried  at 
intervals,  persevering  as  hounds  leapt  over  him, 
upsetting  him  in  the  tangle,  rolling  him  over  in 
the  confusion,  unhurt  as  the  fox  himself.  All 
at  once  he  uplifted  his  dirty  face,  peering 

98 


THE  STRAW 

upwards  with  a  yell  of  triumph,  pointing  at 
a  fox  in  the  tree  above  him,  scarcely  distin- 
guishable, so  still,  so  flat  he  lay  along  the 
branch.  No  cub  that,  who  had  to  be  harried 
into  the  open.  His  glittering  eyes  took  in 
discovery,  and  his  leap  carried  him  over  the 
enemy's  head.  Landing  like  a  cat  on  his 
pads,  he  made  a  dash  of  it,  leaving  uproar 
behind.  Scratched,  but  glorious,  the  imp  wrig- 
gled through  the  hedge  after  him,  holloaing 
with  all  his  might;  and  hounds  crashed  out 
into  the  field,  and  flung  themselves  on  his 
scent. 

"Here,  Columbus."  A  man  shouted,  throw- 
ing him  a  bit  of  silver  as  he  galloped  past; 
a  little  girl  on  a  shaggy  pony  stood  up  in  her 
stirrups  and  slashed  at  him  with  her  whip. 

"You  traitor,  you  little  base  traitor!"  she 
cried  at  him. 

"That's  my  infant.  Hark  at  her!"  said 
Sophia  Bland. 

"I  —  I  —  like  that  child,"  said  Judy,  looking 
up  at  Gay. 

"This  way,"  he  said. 

Her  horse  was  fighting  for  his  head,  and  her 
piteous  glance  at  him  was  instinctive.  She 
followed  him  unquestioning  in  what  looked 
like  the  wrong  direction,  but  brought  them 

99 


THE  STRAW 

to  the  front  as  the  pack  streamed  round  on  the 
right,  pelted  across  the  open  green  space 
below  the  wood  and  spread  over  the  fallows 
towards  the  Trussels,  turning  sharp  as  the 
fox,  baulked  in  his  first  intention,  left  that 
matted  thicket  on  his  right,  and  diving  down 
the  steep  embankment,  reappeared  on  the  other 
side  of  the  railway,  skirting  Dalby  and  making 
for  Gartree  Hill. 

Judy  could  not  hold  her  horse.  It  was  all 
she  could  do  to  keep  him  straight,  and  Gay 
was  thankful  when  she  got  over  a  fence  or  two 
without  disaster.  He  shouted  encouragingly 
to  her  as  he  shot  in  front  and  picked  out  the 
weakest  place  in  a  big  hedge,  trusting  that 
she  would  follow  him.  But  her  horse  swerved 
and  blundered  over  further  down,  almost 
landing  into  a  pond.  He  thundered  alongside, 
breathing  hard,  too  excited  to  look  where  he 
was  going,  or  feel  the  light  hands  that  had  no 
grip  on  him.  Luckily  they  were  in  a  wide 
field,  all  ridge  and  furrow,  with  the  ridges 
lying  crosswise.  Galloping  over  that  took  it 
out  of  him,  sobered  him  a  trifle  before  he 
reached  the  stiff  post  and  rails  beyond.  Gay 
did  not  know  how  anxious  he  was  until  he  saw 
that  she  had  got  over  safe. 

In  the   bottom   hounds   had   checked;    they 

100 


THE  STRAW 

were  feathering  up  and  down,  bringing  the 
field  to  a  halt.  But  a  shepherd,  standing  at 
gaze  on  the  side  of  the  hill,  had  fallen  suddenly 
flat  on  his  face.  He  had  seen  the  fox  coming  up. 

"It's  Gartree  Hill,  sure  enough,"  said  Gay. 
"Let's  bear  to  the  right.  There,  hounds  are 
on  his  line.  We'll  keep  to  the  lane.  That 
horse  is  a  little  too  much  for  you,  isn't 
he?" 

She  answered  him  between  breathless  gasps. 

"I  think  so,"  she  said;  "but  my  husband 
says  that  I  am  a  coward." 

Her  husband.  .  .  .  Gay  could  just  dis- 
tinguish him  in  the  distance,  charging  down, 
the  last  to  pull  up  at  the  huntsman's  warning 
hand,  the  first  to  break  rank.  Anger  shook 
him,  but  he  schooled  himself  to  keep  his  footing 
as  a  comrade  without  aspiring  to  the  dangerous 
office  of  a  champion.  It  was  safer  for  her  he 
should  not. 

"Come  along,"  he  said.  "We'll  be  there  as 
soon  as  they  are.  Don't  hurry;  I'll  unlatch 
that  gate." 

They  swung  out  of  the  lane,  galloped  a  little 
way  on  the  high  road,  and  turned  off,  stamping 
through  the  deep  mud  in  the  passage  at  the 
back  of  the  cover  that  let  them  up  on  to  the 
bleak  hill-top.  Hounds  were  just  disappearing 
101 


THE  STRAW 

into  the  cover  itself  and  an  avalanche  of  horse- 
men was  gathering  on  the  summit  ready  to 
sweep  over  the  edge  into  the  valley. 

"I  think,''  said  Judy  in  a  low  voice,  "I  see 
my  husband  looking  for  me." 

But  if  she  had  hoped  to  blind  the  world 
to  the  state  of  affairs  between  them  her  effort 
was  useless.  Nothing  could  have  made  the 
truth  clearer  than  Lauder's  churlish  reception 
of  her,  and  her  chidden  look  as  she  turned  from 
him.  Gay  ground  his  teeth,  resisting  his  in- 
clination to  push  to  her  side  again  before 
them  all. 

"Do  you  see  that?"  said  Lord  Robert. 
"That's  how  it  is  between  them.  A  shame, 
isn't  it  ?  It  wouldn't  hurt  the  man  to  be  civil 
to  her  in  public.  Glory,  here  comes  the 
millionaire !" 

Sophia  Bland  rode  over  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
and  with  her,  but  at  a  little  distance,  her  pre- 
occupied admirer.  Lord  Robert,  singling  him 
out,  circled  round  him  judicially. 

"How  has  old  Fireworks  been  conducting 
himself?"  he  inquired. 

"Surprisingly  well,  so  far,"  said  the  victim 
with  caution.  "No  doubt  he  is  waiting  his 
opportunity.  Once  or  twice  I  had  to  let  him 
see  I  was  on  my  guard." 

102 


THE  STRAW 

"  He's  a  deceitful  beast,"  agreed  Lord  Robert. 
"I've  known  him  go  a  whole  day  like  a  sheep, 
and  then,  without  any  warning,  become  a 
demon.  That  was  how  he  killed  Parkinson, 
wasn't  it?" 

The  man  he  appealed  to  nodded,  incapable  of 
speech. 

"It  takes  uncommon  pluck  to  ride  him," 
said  Lord  Robert  respectfully.  "Poor  Johnny 
Blackwood  bought  him  just  as  you  did  —  off  a 
dealer,  and  wouldn't  believe  in  his  history 
when  we  told  him.  Said  he  was  an  idle  horse, 
and  took  spurs  to  him..  He  just  arched  his 
back  once,  breathing  fire  and  brimstone,  and 
that  was  the  end  of  Johnny.  I  suppose  he 
owes  it  to  his  mild  nose  that  he's  not  been 
shot.  Each  man  who  sees  him  thinks  the  poor 
animal  has  been  slandered.  Old  hypocrite!" 

He  shook  his  head  gloomily  at  the  horse, 
blinking  consciously  in  his  face. 

"He  thinks  you're  singing  his  praises," 
said  one  of  the  listeners. 

"So  he  does;  but  I  shan't  gratify  him  with 
a  list  of  his  killed  and  wounded." 

"The  horse  won't  kill  me,"  said  his  present 
owner  with  much  firmness. 

"I  dare  say  not.  But  you  can't  be  too 
careful,"  said  Lord  Robert. 

103 


THE  STRAW 

"I'm  told  he  goes  meekly  as  long  as  he 
thinks  he's  master.  Humour  him;  humour 
him." 

He  edged  away  as  Sophia  Bland  came  within 
earshot.  She  called  to  him. 

"What's  going  on  ?"  she  said. 

Lord  Robert  looked  gently  surprised. 

"Oh,  nothing  at  all,"  he  said.  "We  were 
only  admiring  your  friend  Potter's  wonderful 
horsemanship.  He  must  be  a  joy  to  you. 
Tell  me,  now,  is  there  any  limit  to  what  that 
man  will  swallow?" 

Sophia  raised  her  eyebrows  but  did  not 
trouble  to  protect  her  satellite. 

"I  really  don't  know,"  she  said;  "he  has 
a  great  sense  of  his  own  importance.  I  suppose 
he  doesn't  think  anybody  would  dare  to  meddle 
with  it." 

"Ah,"  said  Lord  Robert,  "that's  the  trap 
with  the  big  ones  of  the  earth.  Look  at  him. 
See  the  deadly  seriousness  he  puts  into  the 
job  of  outwitting  the  ancient  Roman.  An 
ordinary  fool  would  have  found  out  for  him- 
self that  he  hasn't  a  kick  in  him,  let  alone  the 
mysterious  devilishness  we've  been  putting 
down  to  his  score.  How  did  you  capture  the 
man  ?  Was  it  in  a  museum  ?" 

She  laughed  carelessly,  moving  along. 
104 


THE  STRAW 

Hounds  were  working  silently  in  the  cover. 
There  was  a  peculiar  calm  that  portended 
something. 

"I  was  rude  to  him,"  she  said,  "and  he  was 
astonished.  Since  then  he  has  never  left 
me." 

"Are  you  going  to  marry  him?"  said  Lord 
Robert,  with  his  head  on  one  side,  like  an  elderly 
magpie. 

It  did  not  suit  him  to  drop  his  voice,  for 
out  of  the  tail  of  his  eye  he  saw  the  man  whose 
infatuation  for  Sophia  had  been  common 
knowledge,  and  whom  report  said  she  had 
never  forgiven  for  his  defection,  approach. 
Curiosity  prompted  him,  not  any  wish  to 
help  her  to  punish  a  deserter.  ...  It  was 
amusing  to  see  Lauder  as  black  as  a  thunder- 
cloud. 

Sophia  lifted  her  eyes,  lazy,  inscrutable. 

"Perhaps  I  am,"  she  said. 

And  then  arose  a  tremendous  cry.  The 
horses  quivered  with  excitement,  scarcely  to 
be  restrained  until  the  fox  leapt  out  across  the 
road  below,  springing  on  till  he  was  screened 
from  view  by  the  Lake  Plantations,  through 
which  hounds  raced  without  a  pause. 

"What  I  am  going  to  do,"  said  Lord  Robert, 
letting  the  galloping  tide  go  by  and  setting  off 

105 


THE  STRAW 

by  himself,  "is  to  cut  along  the  bottom  and 
climb  the  heights.  With  luck  I'll  get  to  Bur- 
rough  Hill  Wood  first.  I'm  not  out  for  exer- 
cise, but  judicious  contemplation  of  other 
men's  mistakes." 

He  plodded  through  the  clay  in  the  deep 
lane  that  he  had  chosen,  turning  a  deaf  ear 
to  the  cry  of  hounds,  now  nearer,  now  fainter, 
skirmishing  on  his  left;  and  stopped  on  the 
other  side  of  the  valley  to  exchange  opinions 
with  Tokenhouse,  posted  there  in  his  gig. 

"Your  fox  has  run  up  the  draining  furrow 
in  that  ploughed  field,"  said  Tokenhouse; 
"  he's  in  the  wood." 

Hounds  came  scampering  over  the  cart- 
road  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  confident,  till 
they  were  brought  to  their  noses  by  the  fresh- 
turned  earth,  giving  tongue  delightedly  as  they 
hit  upon  the  furrow  and  ran  along  it  in  single 
file. 

"That  proves  what  I  say,"  said  Lord  Robert. 
"Turn  your  back  on  them  and  they'll  run 
after  you  to  the  end  of  the  world.  Look  at 
the  field  now,  in  beautiful  disorder  —  half 
of  them  left  and  the  others  blowing.  Hullo, 
you  sluggards !  Your  horses  are  all  too 
fat." 

"What  did  you  come  out  for?"  said 
106 


THE  STRAW 

Rafferty,  who  had  outlived  catastrophe  in 
the  form  of  a  blind  ditch  at  the  back  of  Little 
Dalby. 

"To  study  my  horse's  idiosyncrasies/'  said 
Lord  Robert.  "They  all  have  'em.  The  one 
you  are  on  —  for  the  present  —  likes  getting 
rid  of  his  rider.  The  best  one  I  ever  had 
couldn't  stand  perambulators.  Traction  en- 
gines were  flies  to  him,  and  balloons  mere 
bubbles;  but  when  there  was  any  risk  of 
meeting  a  nurserymaid  I  had  to  ride  him  in 
blinkers." 

"Was  that  the  one  that  bolted  with  you 
last  year,"  said  Rafferty,  "while  you  were 
trying  to  sell  him  ?" 

"It  was,"  said  Lord  Robert  sadly.  "We 
discarded  the  blinkers  to  show  off  his  fine  round 
eye,  never  expecting  to  meet  the  foe  wandering 
with  the  Cottesmore  in  the  lost  wastes  beyond 
Crown  Point  and  Dead  Man's  Bones.  But 
all  at  once  I  felt  him  shiver  under  me,  and  he 
shied  into  the  customer  and  then  nearly  car- 
ried me  to  perdition  before  I  got  a  pull  on  him. 
I  didn't  sell  him.  .  .  .  But  it  wasn't  his 
fault,  poor  beast !  There  -was  a  perambulator, 
though  put  to  illegitimate  uses.  An  old  tramp 
was  wheeling  it  in  the  wilderness  filled  with 
sticks." 

107 


THE  STRAW 

"And  what's  the  matter  with  this  one?" 
said  Rafferty. 

"His  peculiarity,"  said  Lord  Robert,  "isn't 
so  uncommon;  he  can't  go." 

He  drew  on  one  side,  passing  the  crowd  in 
review  as  they  collected,  winding  up  Burrough 
Hill. 

"Your  hobby  is  human  nature,  isn't  it, 
Tokenhouse?"  he  said.  "It's  what  you  come 
out  to  see  ?" 

"Hardly,"  said  Tokenhouse  abstractedly. 
He  was  not  attending.  The  main  body  had 
massed  itself  under  the  overhanging  wood,  a 
few  were  climbing  still,  and  in  the  bottom 
solitary  individuals,  thrown  out  in  the  ring 
round  Dalby,  were  making  haste  to  retrieve 
their  errors  and  get  up  without  remark. 
Away  on  the  left  a  discreet  train  of  second 
horsemen  were  approaching  by  a  line  of  gates ; 
and  far  back  in  the  distance  rang  the  scream- 
ing, dying  into  a  wail,  of  watchers  who  had 
sighted  another  fox. 

"Anyhow,  it  amuses  you,"  said  Lord  Robert. 
"I'll  give  you  a  hint;  there's  trouble  brewing. 
Oh,  not  the  usual  thing.  I  distrust  that 
fellow  Lauder.  He  never  was  the  kind  to 
pull  up  in  time,  and  Sophia  Bland  is  bent  on 
paying  him  out  for  the  way  he  behaved  to 
108 


THE  STRAW 

her.  It  doesn't  matter  to  her  who  suf- 
fers. If  she's  not  careful  she'll  drive  him 
a  bit  too  far." 

"Meaning?"  said  Tokenhouse. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  anything,"  said  Lord 
Robert;  "I  never  do.  But  I've  heard  how 
the  wind  sits  in  a  good  many  quarters." 

Tokenhouse  looked  up  at  the  sky. 

"It  is  going  to  rain,"  he  said. 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Lord  Robert.  "We 
want  it  to  take  the  gloss  off  a  few  of  us.  It's 
painful  to  see  fellows  hunting  in  clean  new 
clothes.  Mum's  the  word,  but  —  Lauder  has 
taken  to  drinking  hard.  Why  the  deuce  did 
he  go  and  marry  that  little  thing?" 

He  went  off  grumbling;  the  commotion 
yonder  made  it  evident  that  he  would  have 
to  follow  up  and  join  the  others  in  scrambling 
along  the  top. 

Tokenhouse  remained  like  a  sentinel  in  his 
gig,  in  abstracted  contemplation  of  sky  and 
land.  He  was  not  in  a  talkative  humour. 
Perhaps  habit  was  strong  on  him,  and  to  a 
man  who  had  done  with  activity  there  was 
something  bitter  in  the  sight  of  his  old  asso- 
ciates carrying  on  a  life  out  of  which  he  had 
dropped.  There  were  too  many  known  faces 
in  this  crowd  that  had  broken  like  a  devastating 

109 


THE  STRAW 

horde  upon  the  quietness  of  existence,  and  the 
shock  of  reminiscence  affected  him  as  it  af- 
fected them,  imparting  a  touch  of  awkward- 
ness to  the  meeting. 

Before  November  was  out  the  men  would 
have  settled  into  comfortable  forgetfulness  of 
the  feeling  that  prompted  them  to  be  a  little 
too  jovial,  a  little  too  cheery  in  greeting  the 
derelict,  before  sinking  their  voices  to  explain 
his  history  to  the  others  who  did  not  know. 

Sophia  Bland,  riding  home  in  the  dusk, 
slackened  her  pace  when  she  heard  another 
horse  behind,  but  did  not  turn  her  head. 

She  had  left  the  hunt  in  company  with 
others,  but  these  had  gone  their  ways,  and 
she  was  travelling  the  last  mile  or  two  alone. 
It  did  not  trouble  her;  hers  was  not  a  nature 
to  start  at  shadows,  to  see  tramps  in  a  hedge- 
row, phantoms  lurking  behind  a  barn. 

She  knew  who  the  man  was  who  was  lessen- 
ing the  distance  between  them  with  every 
stride,  hardening  his  heart  to  address  her. 
Often  and  often  they  had  ridden  home  to- 
gether along  this  lane,  close  and  confidential, 
their  tired  horses  keeping  step,  stumble  for 
stumble,  and  far  behind  them  the  horn  sound- 
ing its  melancholy  lament  at  the  back  of  Adam's 
Gorse.  But  times  had  changed, 
no 


THE  STRAW 

"  Will  you  never  make  friends  ?"  he  said. 

She  pulled  her  horse  on  to  the  grass  at  the 
far  side  of  the  lane. 

"It's  no  use,"  she  said.  "Ride  home  with 
the  married  woman." 

No  Egyptian  could  have  flung  him  more 
bitterness  in  that  word. 

"Confound  her!"  said  Lauder,  under  his 
breath,  loud  enough  for  Sophia  to  hear. 

"Stick  to  your  bargain,"  she  said.  "I 
warned  you,  Bill.  It's  no  use  your  dogging 
me,  trying  to  patch  up  a  kind  of  friendship, 
a  stupid  imitation  of  what  you  might  have 
had.  It  was  a  straight  issue,  wasn't  it  ?  You 
took  your  way.  I'll  take  mine." 

"Does  that  mean  you  are  marrying  Pot- 
ter ?"  said  Lauder  in  a  husky  undertone. 

"Why  should  I  not?"  she  said.  "Why 
should  I  not  follow  your  example  ?  Perhaps 
you  have  taught  me,  too,  how  to  be  prudent. 
Perhaps  7  am  tired  of  debts  and  difficulties; 
all  that  I  used  to  find  amusing.  As  you  did. 
You  decided  it  wasn't  worth  while,  Bill.  Why 
shouldn't  I?" 

He  brought  his  horse  so  near  that  his  arm 
brushed  her  shoulder. 

"Sophia  -  "  he  said,  and  stammered  some 
wild  proffer  that  the  turbulence  of  his  feeling 

in 


THE  STRAW 

brought  out  before  he  knew  it.  Formerly  they 
had  stood  by  each  other,  had  shared  each  other's 
winnings  - 

"Why,"  she  said,  "I  believe  the  man  is  offer- 
ing his  wife's  money  to  me !" 

Her  disdain  struck  him  silent. 

There  was  no  loyalty  in  the  man.  In  his 
extremity  he  had  grasped  selfishly  at  his  chance 
of  salvation  without  more  than  a  passing  sense 
of  guilt  towards  the  woman  whose  hold  upon 
him  was  too  weak  to  stand  against  his  need. 
He  saw  nothing  despicable  in  his  action. 
Other  men  did  the  same;  other  women  ac- 
quiesced. 

But  Sophia  had  not  acquiesced.  She  had 
refused  to  see  in  his  marriage  a  mere  incident, 
an  expedient  to  be  understood,  to  be  excused 
and  forgotten.  It  was  not  he  who  had  thrown 
her  over;  it  was  she  who,  stronger  than  he, 
had  loosed  him. 

That  was  the  thing  that  rankled,  that  filled 
him  with  a  furious  admiration.  He  had  not 
realised  until  she  let  him  go  what  she  had 
meant  in  his  life,  what  a  spell  she  had  laid  on 
him.  Barred,  despised,  her  scorn  of  him  fired 
his  old  infatuation,  and  he  would  have  liked 
to  fawn  upon  her  like  a  tamed  wild  beast. 
If  Sophia  Bland,  the  heartless,  the  indifferent, 


THE  STRAW 

had  asked  the  gods  for  vengeance,  she  had  it 
in  her  hands. 

"You  shall  be  friends  with  me  yet,"  he  said. 
"I'll  make  you." 

"You  can  try,"  said  Sophia. 

They  had  turned  out  of  the  byway  into  a 
wider  lane  running  westward,  and  the  hush 
was  interrupted  by  a  weird  pattering  as  the 
pack  came  up  with  them  and  passed,  mud- 
stained,  dim  in  the  twilight,  disappearing 
like  phantoms.  The  horn  was  sounding  its 
last  long-drawn,  mournful  note,  calling  to  the 
lost. 

The  woman  quickened  her  horse's  gait, 
joining  the  faithful  followers  who  had  stayed 
to  the  end.  The  man  fell  back  brooding 
sullenly  on  what  had  robbed  him  of  her. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  Babes  had  called  in  to  ask  Gay's 
advice. 

There  were  two  of  them,  and  they  were 
cousins,  one  the  son  of  an  admiral,  and  the 
other  the  son  of  an  Indian  judge.  Having 
both  failed  to  pass  into  the  Woods  and  Forests 
they  had  fled  from  the  crammers  and  were 
trying  an  experiment  of  their  own.  They 
had  brought  to  the  adventure  all  that  ardour 
that  schoolboys  put  into  robbers'  camps.  To 
squat  in  the  midst  of  civilisation  was  a  bigger 
/joke  than  to  do  the  same  in  an  unsympa- 
thetic prairie  barren  of  lookers-on.  True, 
there  were  objections.  You  had  to  keep  up 
your  fences,  and  you  were  open  to  the  risks 
of  being  pounced  upon  by  curious  relations 
who  popped  in  on  you  without  warning,  and 
were  eloquent  with  horror  at  your  goings- 
on. 

They  had  to  farm.  Gold-mining  would 
have  been  more  congenial,  but  it  could  not 
114 


THE  STRAW 

be  done  in  this  locality.  So  they  had  set  up 
an  iron  habitation  in  the  centre  of  their  ex- 
perimental acres,  and  Stokes  had  fixed  a  broom- 
stick on  the  roof,  partly  to  act  as  a  flagstaff, 
and  partly  to  show  that  it  was  not  a  mission 
room. 

"If  the  flag  is  up,"  he  explained  to  the 
public,  "we  are  visible  to  callers.  If  it  isn't, 
we  are  not  presentable,  and  the  ram  is 
loose." 

The  ram  was  not  a  myth,  but  a  ferocious 
guardian  that  Pinner  had  bought,  quite  by 
accident,  in  the  market.  It  was  their  one 
protection  against  a  prying  world.  Before  his 
coming  they  had  been  liable  at  any  moment  to 
a  domiciliary  visit  from  the  aunt  who  financed 
them;  now  she  wrote  first,  announcing  her 
intention. 

"And  that's  a  blessing,"  said  Pinner  with 
profound  thankfulness,  when  pouring  out  their 
woes  to  Gay.  "Do  you  know,  she  came  down 
upon  us  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold  at  ten  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  And  there  was  I  in  my  pyjamas 
letting  out  the  fowls;  you  must  keep  fowls, 
or  how  are  you  to  encourage  foxes  ?  and  poor 
old  Stokes  washing  up  the  dishes  under  the 
pump,  and  using  Admiralty  language  because 
the  grease  wouldn't  come  off;  we  hadn't  found 

"5 


THE  STRAW 

out  then  that  bacon  fat  cleaned  itself  up  if 
you  dipped  the  things  in  hot  water.  I  can 
tell  you  that  was  a  discovery  -  — !  Well, 
Stokes  dropped  the  plates  and  ran  for  his  life 
to  turn  out  the  horses." 

-For  you  see,"  said  Stokes,  "they  were 
supposed  to  be  cows." 

—  And  drove  them  into  one  of  your  fields," 
said  Pinner.  "So  that  when  we  took  her 
round  the  stables  we  could  explain  that  we 
always  let  them  out  after  milking.  She  didn't 
go  down  to  the  pasture  to  prod  them  with  her 
umbrella.  I  wonder  at  that.  But  it  was  a 
narrow  escape." 

"It  was  bad  enough  as  it  was,"  said  Stokes. 
"She  was  awfully  distressed  at  our  doing  our 
own  washing  and  all  the  real  things.  She 
can't  understand  the  laws  of  the  game.  She 
said:  'Do  try  to  live  like  Christians,'  and  she 
was  so  sorry  for  us  she  sent  down  her  delicate 
butler,  Johnson,  who  was  told  he'd  a  weak 
chest  and  must  live  a  gipsy  life,  to  do  the 
housework  and  keep  us  up  to  our  dignity.  I 
don't  complain  of  his  cooking,  but  I  do  object 
to  his  going  about  from  morning  to  night  re- 
proaching us  with  his  clean  face  and  his  black 
tails." 

"It's    perfectly    awful,"    chimed    in    Pinner, 
116 


THE  STRAW 

"the  way  he  clings  to  that  old  dress-coat.  We 
did  all  we  could  think  of  to  beguile  him  into 
other  clothes.  He  says  she  made  him  swear 
never  to  leave  it  off,  for  our  sakes,  to  be  a  check 
on  our  barbarous  habits." 

There  was  an  artlessness  about  Stokes  and 
Pinner.  They  were  both  stout  young  men  with 
stubbly  fair  hair  and  ingenuous  faces,  and  a  great 
capacity  for  boyish  make-believe.  They  were 
much  alike,  except  that  Pinner  always  had  a 
surprised  look  and  Stokes  owned  a  bit  of  a 
moustache.  They  were  known  as  the  Babes 
because  of  their  artlessness,  and  because  their 
innocence  was  always  being  imposed  upon. 
Anybody  who  had  a  screw  to  dispose  of  con- 
sidered them  legitimate  spoil,  and  their  ap- 
pearance in  Melton  market  was  good  for 
trade. 

For  Gay's  opinion  they  had  a  superstitious 
reverence.  He  had  helped  them  out  of  a 
good  many  difficulties,  and  it  was  their  custom 
to  apply  to  him  for  counsel  whenever  any- 
thing went  wrong.  By  dint  of  following  him 
about  and  asking  him  questions  they  had 
acquired  some  knowledge  of  a  rudimentary 
description.  It  was  against  the  laws  of  their 
game  to  indulge  in  hired  assistance,  but, 
thanks  to  the  aunt's  subsidy,  they  carried  it  on 

117 


THE  STRAW 

gaily;  hunted  enthusiastically  on  the  queer 
animals  they  picked  up,  and  in  their  serious 
moments  worked  with  a  feverish  activity  that 
was  too  good  to  last. 

They  stood  rather  in  awe  of  Tokenhouse, 
but  Gay  they  worshipped.  And  now  they 
waited  in  his  room  buried  in  two  chairs,  dis- 
consolate until,  at  the  sound  of  his  step  in  the 
passage,  their  gloom  was  lifted. 

"Thank  goodness!"  said  Pinner.  Stokes 
poked  the  fire  and  pulled  out  the  chair  he  had 
been  sitting  on  for  the  master  of  the  house, 
while  Pinner,  equally  at  home,  carried  the 
teapot  into  the  kitchen  himself  to  secure  a 
fresh  supply  of  tea.  Then  they  sat  metaphori- 
cally at  his  feet. 

"Look  here,"  said  Pinner.  "What  on  earth 
are  we  to  do  ? " 

"What  have  you  done?"  said  Gay. 

"It's  not  our  fault,"  protested  Stokes,  "but 
we  can't  see  any  way  out  of  it.  We  hoped 
you  would.  It's  come  on  us  like  an  earth- 
quake. Oh,  the  pig's  all  right;  we're  getting 
used  to  him  grunting  when  he  is  out  of  temper. 
We  thought  feeding  him  would  do  Johnson 
good,  bring  him  down  to  our  level,  but  he 
says  it  wasn't  in  the  bond,  so  we'll  have  to  sell 
him." 

118 


THE  STRAW 

"We're  in  a  devil  of  a  hole,"  said  Pinner. 
"It's  all  the  aunt." 

"She's  got  mixed  up  with  journalists,"  said 
Stokes  lugubriously.  "Been  hobnobbing  with 
newspapers  - 

"And  she's  been  bragging  to  them  of  how 
we're  nobly  demonstrating  that  there's  no 
occasion  to  clear  out  Britain's  extra  sons,  and 
that  we're  an  object-lesson  to  British  parents 
—  colonising  the  desolate  spots  of  our  native 
land.  You  know  the  kind  of  thing.  And 
they  are  turning  the  eye  of  the  world  upon  us. 
She  says  so.  What  the  dickens  are  we  to 
do?" 

"We  can't  keep  them  out,"  said  Pinner. 
"The  ram's  nowhere,  butting  against  the 
power  of  the  Press.  They'll  make  us  notorious 
all  over  the  kingdom." 

"And  besides,  there's  the  aunt,"  said  Stokes. 

"She's  awfully  cock-a-hoop.  If  we  go  and 
disgrace  her  after  all  her  crowing,  she'll  cut 
off  supplies.  Just  think  what  fools  we  shall 
look !  They're  coming  down  in  a  body  to  take 
notes.  We'll  see  ourselves  pilloried  in  the  daily 
papers  - 

They  looked  at  Gay. 

"  What's  to  be  done  ? "  groaned  Pinner. 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  their  counsellor,  trying 
119 


THE  STRAW 

to  imitate  their  solemnity,  "you'll  have  to  stick 
it  out." 

"But  they're  making  it  a  matter  of  na- 
tional importance,"  urged  the  dismal  Stokes. 
"They'll  photograph  every  inch  of  the  ground 
and  the  live  and  dead  stock.  I  say,  I'll  never 
forget  the  first  time  I  went  to  an  auction  and 
found  out  that  wasn't  corpses,  but  ploughs  and 
harrows  -  - ! " 

"You  see,"  said  Pinner,  "we  haven't  been 
very  lucky.  We  are  having  a  healthy  time  on 
the  whole,  but  it  wouldn't  look  grand  on  paper. 
How  can  you  make  a  cold-blooded  Special 
Commissioner,  or  whatever  the  monster's  called, 
see  that  a  few  nags  are  cheaper  and  more 
suitable  to  us  than  a  lot  of  cows  that  catch 
cold  and  disseminate  consumption  ?  There's 
something  queer  about  all  our  animals  except 
that  flock  of  Highland  sheep,  and  nothing  will 
keep  them  in  one  place  two  nights  together. 
They'd  go  through  a  brick  wall  like  Mahatmas 
rather  than  stay  on  exhibition.  We  spend  our 
lives  hunting  them 

"That's  what  we  have  to  keep  horses  for," 
suggested  Stokes.  "We  might  say  so,  if  they'd 
believe  us." 

They  ceased,  looking  at  Gay  in  comical 
despair. 

120 


THE  STRAW 

"I'll  come  round  to  the  Tin  House  in  the 
morning,"  he  said,  "and  see  what's  to  be 
done." 

The  Babes  brightened  immediately,  as  if  a 
load  had  been  taken  off  them. 

"Thanks,  awfully,"  said  Pinner.  "Let's  go 
home,  Stokes;  we  mustn't  waste  any  time. 
We  ought  to  clean  up  for  inspection." 

But  still  they  loitered. 

"There's  another  thing,"  said  Stokes.  "It 
doesn't  matter  really.  But  you  know  those 
people  who  hunt  from  the  house  in  the  hol- 
low ?  We  can  sit  on  our  doorstep  and  smoke 
down  their  chimneys.  .  .  .  The  man's  called 
Lauder." 

"Yes,"  said  Gay,  in  a  changed  voice. 

"Well,  the  sheep  are  awfully  keen  on  them 
—  I  mean  on  the  yew  tree  in  their  garden. 
It  says  in  the  dictionary  that  yew  is  poison,  so 
last  night  we  had  a  presentiment,  and  we  rushed 
down  the  hill  and  found  the  entire  flock  rum- 
maging in  there.  Of  course,  Pinner  and  I 
went  through  the  hedge  after  them,  and  we 
had  a  great  hunt." 

"It  was  sport,  you  know,"  acknowledged 
Pinner.  "Pitch  dark,  and  these  black-faced 
fiends  darting  about  braying  or  barking  or 
whatever  it's  called,  and  us  tumbling  in  all 

121 


THE  STRAW 

directions  grabbing  at  their  wool.  But  Lauder 
came  out  and  swore  at  us  like  a  trooper." 

"We  didn't  mind  that,"  said  Stokes,  "we're 
used  to  it.  He  should  hear  the  farmers  -  - ! 
And,  of  course,  it  was  late,  and  it  was  a  bit 
too  like  the  Hippodrome.  But  the  man  was 
drunk." 

"He  flung  open  that  long  French  window," 
said  Pinner.  "It  made  a  big  sweep  of  light, 
like  a  theatre.  And  she  was  there;  his  wife, 
you  know.  He'd  been  terrifying  her.  You 
could  see  that.  She  had  been  crying." 

"She  was  alone  with  him  in  the  house," 
said  Stokes,  "except  for  the  servants,  and  they 
were  miles  off,  at  the  other  end;  they  never 
even  heard  us  making  that  hullabaloo." 

"We'd  have  to  be  blind  and  deaf,"  said 
Pinner,  "not  to  see  the  way  he  treats  her. 
Jeering  and  sneering  at  her,  and  sending  her 
out  on  half-broken  brutes  of  horses,  hoping 
she'll  break  her  neck!  She's  too  frightened  of 
him  to  resist  - 

"I  wouldn't  talk  about  it,"  said  Gay;  his 
own  voice  was  hard.  The  Babes  stared  re- 
proachfully at  his  averted  face,  misunderstand- 
ing, thinking  him  unsympathetic. 

"We  are  only  telling  you,"  said  Stokes, 
"and  if  we  held  our  tongues  we  should  burst. 

122 


THE  STRAW 

We're  not  libelling  him.  Do  you  think  it 
would  be  cheek  on  our  part  if  we  called  on 
her  and  apologised  for  the  row  we  made,  and 
asked  her  to  look  upon  us  as  totally  at  her 
service  any  time  she  wanted  support  ?  As 
neighbours  ?" 

Stokes  was  the  more  deliberate  of  the  two. 
He  spoke  with  a  slight  pause  before  he  began 
a  sentence,  not  owing  so  much  to  his  wisdom 
as  to  some  professor's  stern  endeavour  to  cure 
him  of  a  stutter.  Mechanically  he  counted 
twenty  before  he  brought  out  a  word. 

"Yes;   can't  we  do  that?"   said  Pinner. 

They  waited  for  Gay's  approval. 

"I  suppose  you  can,"  he  said  heavily. 

The  Babes  could  not  understand  his  manner. 
It  damped  their  enthusiasm,  puzzled  them. 
They  stared  at  his  back  disconcerted. 

"We'll  be  very  discreet,"  said  Stokes.  "We 
shouldn't  dream  of  saying  to  her:  'Count  on 
us  to  protect  you  against  your  husband.'  But 
still,  we  are  handy.  She  might  like  to  feel  she 
had  —  friends  within  call." 

"If  you  had  seen  her  face  last  night !" 

said  Pinner. 

Gay  interrupted  him. 

"Oh,  do  as  you  like,"  he  said.  It  struck 
them  that  he  was  harassed  by  a  trouble  out- 

123 


THE  STRAW 

side  their  ken,  and  they  considerately  de- 
camped. 

Gay  heard  them  tramping  out  the  back 
way,  making  their  unceremonious  exit,  and 
when  the  house  was  again  quiet  he  looked 
round  him  stupidly,  missing  their  prattle,  as 
one  might  miss  a  dog,  his  companion,  whose 
disturbing  fuss  broke  into  unhappy  thoughts. 
There  was  to-night  no  satisfaction  in  his  bachelor 
ease,  in  the  blessed  liberty  that  allowed  him  to 
cast  off  his  boots  right  and  left,  and  meditate 
in  comfortable  undress,  his  chair  drawn  up  to 
the  fire,  scorching  his  shins  and  sinking  into 
sleepy  content. 

No.  He  saw  too  much  in  the  fire;  burning 
visions. 

He  got  up  suddenly  and  went  to  seek  his 
lodger. 

The  house  was  run  on  primitive  lines,  with 
a  simplicity  that  suited  both  men,  neither 
particular.  A  man  and  his  wife  did  the  house- 
work :  the  man  a  born  cook,  the  woman  an 
incorrigible  cleaner,  and  although  they  quar- 
relled perpetually,  as  is  the  wont  of  married 
couples  in  service,  it  was  but  relaxation.  Peri- 
odically Crow  ran  away  from  his  wife's 
tongue,  and  Mrs.  Crow  did  his  work  with 

124 


THE  STRAW 

injured  zeal,  just,  as  she  said,  "to  learn  him." 
Invariably  at  the  week's  end  he  unostenta- 
tiously walked  into  the  kitchen  and  began  to 
peel  potatoes.  Mrs.  Crow  in  her  turn  imitated 
him,  but  he,  not  sustained  by  a  high-and- 
mighty  sense  of  his  wrongs,  used  to  take  an 
afternoon  off  on  the  third  day  to  make  his 
peace  with  her  and  fetch  her  back.  Their 
bickerings  kept  the  lamp  of  service  alight 
with  a  rivalry  that  scorned  to  admit  either 
indispensable  to  the  house  or  each  other,  and 
sometimes  the  first  intimation  Gay  received 
of  a  flare-up  in  his  establishment  was  the 
sight  of  his  man  returning  triumphantly  of 
an  evening  up  the  lane,  with  his  truant  wife 
and  her  bundle  hanging  on  his  arm. 

He  had  an  idea  to-night  that  it  was  Crow 
who  was  absent,  by  reason  of  a  fitful  hymn- 
singing  in  the  kitchen,  and  the  significant 
fact  that  the  swinging  lamp  in  the  hall  was 
unlit.  It  was  a  thing  Mrs.  Crow  could  not 
achieve,  since  it  was  a  matter  of  inche%  not 
unconquerable  spirit,  and  even  by  standing 
on  a  chair  she  could  not  reach  it,  being  but 

•  o 

half  her  husband's  size.  She  hated  that  lamp 
as  she  hated  the  library,  which  was  a  for- 
bidden room  to  her,  and  which  she  was  only 
able  to  turn  out  by  stratagem.  Her  displeas- 

125 


THE  STRAW 

ure  in  that  was  translated  into  her  manner 
with  Tokenhouse,  whose  private  haunt  it 
was;  and  she  was  accustomed  to  infuriate 
her  husband,  who  valeted  him  and  believed 
there  was  nobody  like  him,  by  calling  him 
"the  poor  gentleman"  with  a  shake  of  her 
head. 

Gay  made  for  the  line  of  light  in  the  crack 
of  the  library  door  and  went  in. 

Tokenhouse  was  not  like  other  men.  You 
did  not  mind  him  seeing  you  as  you  were, 
without  a  mask,  with  the  signs  of  turbulent 
unhappiness  —  yes,  unhappiness,  call  it  what 
it  was !  —  plain  to  read.  An  absent-minded 
onlooker,  impartial,  with  no  blood  in  him; 
what  did  it  matter  how  much  you  let  him 
know  ? 

"Did  the  Babes  get  you?"  said  Token- 
house.  "They  came  up  to  pour  out  new 
troubles.  They  did  not  want  me.  They  have 
an  idea  that  I  am  cracked,  and  cannot  give 
sound  advice." 

He  stretched  himself,  turning  over  the  papers 
in  front  of  him  with  a  long,  thin  hand  be- 
fore laying  them  down  as  one  might  affec- 
tionately put  aside  an  absurd,  but  engrossing, 
toy. 

126 


THE  STRAW 

"I  have  a  great  fancy  to  preach  this  stuff," 
he  said.  "I  asked  my  cousin,  the  bishop,  if 
he  couldn't  make  it  convenient  to  turn  me 
loose  in  a  pulpit.  I  put  it  to  him  that  it  was 
rather  ridiculous  to  appoint  babes  and  suck- 
lings to  lecture  us  on  matters  they  know  not 
of.  He  told  me  pompously  that  even  these 
grew  up,  and  became  in  time  as  bald  as  proph- 
ets. 'What's  the  advantage  of  that,'  I  said, 
'so  long  as  you  pluck  them  young?" 

He  smiled  at  the  recollection. 

"I  took  a  lot  of  pains,"  he  said  medita- 
tively, "to  convince  my  cousin.  Do  you 
know  I  went  round  his  diocese  collecting 
statistics  —  putting  down  the  subjects  these 
innocents  took  for  discourses.  It  was  an 
imposing  list.  And  I  offered  to  give  an  under- 
taking not  to  meddle  with  theology,  but  only 
to  .deal  with  matters  within  my  province. 
.  .  .  He  could  not  see  it.  Said  he  did  not 
want  people  to  come  to  church  for  secular 
information.  .  .  .  Said  I  was  too  well-known. 
Which  was  just  the  point.  They'd  know  I 
wasn't  condemning  wickedness  as  an  ignorant 
amateur." 

He  looked  over  to  Gay  with  the  tolerant 
air  of  one  who  bore  with  the  shortsightedness 
of  his  neighbours. 

127 


THE  STRAW 

•"Well,"  he  said,  "it  was  a  disappointment. 
There's  some  fine  rhetoric  in  these  sermons  - 
and  it's  lost  on  a  sinful  world.  Odd  how  we 
always  pine  to  be  celebrated  in  ways  we  can- 
not. ...  As  I  lay  on  my  back  a  year  or 
two  ago  the  pulpit  notion  took  a  great  hold 
of  me.  You  were  not  in  the  humour  for  the 
Babes  to-night?" 

He  dropped  his  tone  of  languid  reminiscence 
quite  abruptly. 

"I  was  not,"  said  Gay. 

He  took  a  turn  down  the  room,  a  big,  un- 
tidy chamber  stacked  with  books,  the  accu- 
mulation of  many  years,  and  smelling  of 
Russia  leather.  Its  peaceful  atmosphere  made 
no  appeal  to  him. 

"I  can't  stand  it,"  he  burst  out,  without 
explanation. 

"Don't  do  anything  rash,"  said  Token- 
house  quietly.  "  Don't  do  anything  that  would 
make  it  worse  for  her." 

"They  all  know-  -"  said  Gay.  "They 
all  see  it  the  same  as  I  do.  There  isn't  a  soul 
ignorant  of  how  things  are.  God !  Just  to 
look  at  her,  to  think  of  how  she's  put  herself 
under  the  heel  of  a  man  like  Lauder.  A  ruined 
spendthrift,  a  man  without  one  decent  in- 
stinct, unfit  to  worship  her  on  his  knees  -  — !" 

128 


THE  STRAW 

"Yes;  he's  all  that,"  said  Tokenhouse; 
"but  she  married  him.  I  don't  imagine  a 
woman  cares  what  a  man  is  like  if  she  is  fond 
of  him." 

His  speculative  calm  failed  to  steady  the 
other  man  whose  anger  was  beyond  argument. 
He  had  been  curbing  it  until  it  could  no  longer 
be  controlled. 

"I  don't  believe  she  liked  him,"  he  said. 
"You  don't  know  her.  .  .  .  They  worked 
on  her  with  sophistries,  pushed,  persuaded 

her I'll  swear  she  didn't  love  him.  I'll 

swear  that  if  I  had  been  in  time  - 

He  broke  off,  startled  at  his  own  passion. 

"I  couldn't  make  you  understand,  Token- 
house,"  he  said  less  fiercely,  but  in  a  voice 
that  carried  tides  of  feeling,  "what  a  thing 
it  is  to  see  a  girl  miserable,  and  to  know  that 
if  you  had  had  your  chance,  you  could  have 
made  her  happy.  I'm  not  worth  much,  but 
I  would  have  done  that." 

"I  have  a  working  knowledge  of  many 
problems,"  said  Tokenhouse  mildly.  "I  find 
I  can  understand." 

Gay  halted  in  his  tramp  up  and  down  the 

room.     His  intimates,  who  knew  him  only  as 

a  good   man   to   hounds   and   one   who   could 

always  be  counted  on  in  a  sporting  enterprise, 

K  129 


THE  STRAW 

would  scarcely  have  recognised  in  him  the 
careless  individual  who  took  himself  no  more 
seriously  than  did  his  world. 

"If  she  were  not  so  precious  -  '  he  mut- 
tered. There  was  a  reckless  light  in  his  eyes 
and  a  smile  that  was  defiance,  strange  on  his 
humorous  mouth. 

"Ah,"  said  Tokenhouse  more  gravely,  drop- 
ping into  the  impersonal  note  that  character- 
ised all  allusion  to  his  own  experience  —  he 
always  spoke  of  himself  as  if  he  were  telling 
stories  of  a  man  who  was  dead  — "  I  ran  off 
with  a  lady  once.  It  killed  her.  ...  I  am 
glad  you  understand  that  she  is  too  precious. 
.  .  .  You  cannot  help  her.  Let  her  fight  her 
own  battle,  Gay;  if  I  am  not  mistaken  she  is 
brave  enough." 

"She  is  so  young,"  said  Gay.  "She  has 
not  a  friend  to  stand  by  her;  not  a  woman. 
Oh,  they  are  kind  to  her  and  all  that;  they 
are  sorry  for  her  in  a  curious,  lukewarm  way. 
But  they  do  nothing.  I  tried  to  frighten 
Maria.  I  said:  'Look  what  you  have  done!' 
and  she  brazened  it  out  and  said  no  good  ever 
came  of  interfering  between  married  —  mar- 
ried, good  Lord  !  when  she  brought  it  about 
herself,  when  it's  a  mockery  and  a  sham !" 

"Don't  you  be  too  hot  a  champion,"  said 
130 


THE  STRAW 

Tokenhouse.  "You'll  turn  the  women  against 
her,  Gay,  if  you're  not  careful.  And  you  don't 
want  that;  you  don't  want  to  hurt  her." 

"No,"  said  Gay.  "I'll  leave  it  to  her 
husband." 

It  was  true,  though  he  raged  against  it  in 
angry  hopelessness.  He  could  do  nothing  that 
would  not  hurt  her.  Tokenhouse  need  not 
bring  out  his  cold-blooded  logic  to  make  that 
clear. 

"You're  a  fish,  a  philosopher,"  he  reproached 
him.  "Ton  can't  feel  the  cruelty  of  it  all. 
She  wasn't  made  to  be  unhappy,  Tokenhouse. 
She  was  like  a  butterfly  for  the  sun  to  shine 
on " 

Tokenhouse  listened  to  him  unmoved. 

"I  am  an  old  woman,"  he  said.  "A  safe 
acquaintance.  There  is  no  reason  why  I 
should  not  do  what  I  can  to  look  after  her. 
I'll  talk  to  Maria.  But  if  I  were  you,  I  should 
keep  out  of  Lauder's  house." 

"There    is    no   danger   of  my   crossing   his 

threshold,"  said  Gay.     "I  had  better  tell  you 

-  you'll  probably  hear  it  from  others  —  what 

sent  me  home  half  mad.     Oh,  yes,  I  made  a 

raging  fool  of  myself!     I'm  that  sort." 

He  began  tramping  up  and  down  the  room 
again,  shamefaced,  but  unrepentant,  reddening 


THE  STRAW 

under  his  tanned  skin,  like  a  boy  who  had  done 
wrong  and  was  glad  of  it. 

"The  man  was  in  a  black  temper  this  after- 
noon," he  said.  "Sophia  Bland  had  snubbed 
him.  And  when  we  got  our  second  horses, 
the  one  he  had  ordered  out  for  her  was  that 
pulling  chestnut.  She  can't  hold  him.  She 
knows  she  can't,  and  that  shook  her  nerve. 
We  all  came  down  to  the  brook  below  Melton 
Spinney  —  you  know  what  a  pace  you  want 
to  come  there  —  I  called  out  to  her  to  come 
on,  but  she  didn't  understand,  and  I  saw 
her  try  to  turn  him  away  to  the  ford.  And 
Lauder  came  along  buzzing  like  seven  devils 
and  shouted  she  was  to  jump;  she  wasn't  to 
spoil  the  horse.  That  was  rubbish,  it  was  pure 
tyranny;  he  knew  that  she  was  afraid.  I 
looked  over  my  shoulder  -  And  now  his 

voice  shook  with  the  anger  that  had  burned 
up  into  recklessness. 

"He  had  got  a  cutting  whip,"  he  said, 
"and  he  leaned  out  and  slashed  at  the  chest- 
nut. It  swerved  and  snatched  at  the  bit, 
rushed  down  like  a  whirlwind,  right  on  into 
the  water." 

He  stopped,  commanding  himself  to  speak. 

"He  and  I  came  over  side  by  side,"  he  said. 
"  Another  man  who  had  landed  as  she  went 
132 


THE  STRAW 

in  was  off  and  helping  her  up  the  bank.  She 
was  pale  with  the  fright,  and  dripping.  .  .  . 
And  Lauder  began  railing  at  her.  I  could  not 
stand  it.  I  just  cried  at  him:  'You  brute,  if 
I  catch  you  bullying  your  wife  again,  I'll  kill 
you.'  Hounds  were  in  the  spinney;  every- 
body had  stopped ;  it  was  public  enough !  - 
and  some  of  them  flung  themselves  between 
us.  I  don't  know  if  I  hit  him  first.  .  .  .  All 
I  know  is,  he  was  never  as  near  a  horsewhipping 
in  his  life.  Any  man  would  have  done  as 
much." 

"That  is  a  matter  of  opinion,"  said  Token- 
house.  And  for  all  his  passion  Gay  looked  at 
him  with  a  twinkle. 

"I  think  I  was  very  moderate,"  he  said. 
"You'd  have  thrown  him  in  the  brook  your- 
self." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Tokenhouse  very 
slowly. 


133 


CHAPTER  VII 

THERE  were  signs  of  unusual  activity 
at  the  Tin  House  as  Gay  strolled  across 
in  the  morning.  The  Babes,  recovering  some- 
what from  their  first  consternation,  had 
worked  out  a  plan  of  campaign. 

The  night  had  brought  a  frost,  not  severe, 
but  enough  to  sharpen  the  air  and  lay  a  splin- 
tering film  on  the  surface  of  the  water  in  the 
dikes,  and  turn  its  trickle  into  a  tinkle  where 
it  ran  shallow.  The  wandering  cattle  left 
green  tracks  in  the  silvered  grass.  Gay  swung 
himself  over  a  fence  artistically  mended  with 
a  wooden  chair  thrust  into  a  gap  that  was 
fringed  with  wool,  its  legs  sticking  out  like  guns 
pointed  at  the  intruder,  and  passed  from  his 
own  land  into  that  of  the  pioneers. 

Johnson,  the  representative  of  decorum, 
was  standing  outside  the  door  of  the  three- 
roomed  iron  house,  wearing  his  usual  aspect 
of  blank  politeness  —  a  small,  pale  man,  knock- 
kneed  but  dignified  to  excess.  He  stepped 


THE   STRAW 

forward  with  a  boot  in  one  hand  and  a  blacking- 
brush  in  the  other,  as  if  the  boot  were  a  silver 
platter  in  which  Gay  might  drop  a  card.  The 
pig,  soliciting  favours,  was  rooting  at  his  feet; 
but  that  was  to  be  ignored. 

"The  young  gentlemen's  up  and  out,  sir," 
he  said. 

"Oh,  well,  I'll  find  them,"  said  Gay.  He 
could  hear  shouting  not  far  off. 

"Would  you  be  so  good  as  to  ask  Mr.  Stokes, 
sir,  if  he  could  spare  the  kitchen  table  ?" 
said  Johnson  with  a  deprecating  cough.  "The 
ram,  he  don't  like  me  to  go  down  yonder." 

The  Tin  House  was  perched  on  the  summit 
of  a  thimble-shaped  hill.  Gay  had  walked  up 
one  side  and  had  now  to  go  down  the  other. 
There  was  a  bit  of  a  plantation  at  the  back, 
a  few  wind-sown  trees;  and  as  Gay  skirted  it 
tie  beheld  the  Babes,  with  half  their  stud 
harnessed  to  a  plough,  turning  up  a  pasture. 
Two  or  three  specimens  of  natural  history, 
unfortunate  bargains,  were  standing  in  the 
middle  —  it  was  a  small  field  —  as  upon  an 
island,  gazing. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  doing?"  said 
Gay,  running  down  to  them. 

"Splendid  idea,  isn't  it?"  said  Pinner, 
leaving  his  horses  in  the  furrow  and  joining 


THE  STRAW 

him,  wiping  the  sweat  off  his  brow.  "Here, 
Stokes,  let's  take  a  spell.  It  came  to  us  in  the 
night,  and  we  borrowed  this  plough  and  started 
in  before  it  was  daylight.  We  mean  to 
be  caught  at  it;  it  looks  so  awfully  agri- 
cultural." 

"But  why  don't  you  clear  off  the  stock?" 
said  Gay.  Pinner  looked  wise. 

"That's  where  our  practical  minds  come 
in,"  he  said.  "We'll  explain  to  the  Press 
it's  our  scientific  farming  —  no  waste.  They 
are  there  to  consume  the  grass  till  the  last 
minute;  and  we're  ploughing  round  and  round, 
closing  in  on  them." 

"The  horses  take  to  it  kindly,"  said  Stokes. 
"Of  course,  now  and  then  one  of  them  gets 
tangled  up  in  the  tackle.  It's  lucky  that  none 
of  them  are  finicking  thoroughbreds." 

He  looked  at  his  team  with  pride. 

Their  first  independent  action  had  been  to 
buy  a  mixed  draft  of  eleven  rejected  animals 
from  the  Army  Remount  depot.  They  were 
of  all  shapes  and  sizes,  more  or  less  blemished, 
and  full  of  surprises  in  the  way  of  tricks  and 
temper;  but  they  had  been  cheap.  The 
Babes  had  filled  their  stables  at  the  price  of 
a  single  hunter. 

Pinner  looked  at  his  watch. 
136 


THE  STRAW 

"We  thought,"  he  said,  "you  wouldn't 
mind  receiving  the  enemy  and  taking  him  in 
tow.  Give  him  a  fine  view  of  us  at  our  work. 
You  have  a  way  with  you,  and  we  are  ignorant 
sons  of  toil.  There's  been  a  telegram  saying 
he's  due  at  twelve  .  .  .  and  another  from  the 
aunt  saying  England  expects,  et  cetera." 

"He'll  like  to  inspect  the  Tin  House,"  said 
Stokes.  "We've  hidden  our  easy  chairs  in 
the  haystack.  It  looks  more  primitive  without 
them.  Ought  we  to  invite  him  to  eat  bread 
and  cheese  under  a  hedge  with  a  clasp  knife  ?" 

"We've  told  Johnson,"  said  Pinner,  "he's 
the  blot  on  the  landscape;  that  on  pain  of 
death  he's  forbidden  to  lay  a  cloth." 

"That  reminds  me,"  said  Gay,  "I  saw 
Johnson,  and  he  was  in  trouble  about  a 
table." 

The  Babes  looked  at  each  other. 

"It's  those  lawless  sheep,"  said  Pinner. 
"We  wanted  to  pen  them  in  for  inspection; 
but  last  night  we  caught  them  wriggling  through 
your  hedge  and  we  flew  out  and  stuffed  every- 
thing we  could  lay  our  hands  on  in  the  holes 
they'd  made.  And  after  all,  they  did  us  after 
we'd  gone  to  bed.  They're  invisible;  they 
may  be  anywhere  within  a  radius  of  twenty 
miles." 


THE  STRAW 

"Oh,  by  the  way,"  said  Stokes,  "were  you 
attacked,  coming  down  ?  I  hope  the  ram 
hasn't  drowned  himself;  he's  so  vain  of  look- 
ing at  his  reflection  in  the  pond.  It  would 
be  just  like  him  to  take  offence  and  butt  him- 
self in  the  water.  We  let  him  loose  to  keep 
Johnson  in  the  house.  You  see,  we  put  his 
black  coat  in  the  haystack  too  as  a  temporary 
measure;  it's  so  frightfully  out  of  keeping." 

"He'd  be  certain  to  get  himself  photo- 
graphed in  it  with  folded  arms,  propping  up 
the  shanty,"  said  Pinner. 

"Time's  getting  on,"  said  Stokes;  "let's 
go  and  coax  the  old  beast  into  the  close.  It 
wouldn't  do  to  have  him  buffeting  the 
Press." 

They  started  up  the  slope,  leaving  their 
scratch  team  standing  in  their  tracks,  and  went 
in  search  of  the  ram,  luring  him  cautiously  into 
captivity. 

"How  my  heart  flutters,"  said  Pinner,  re- 
appearing blown  with  the  chase.  "Who's  that 
coming  ? " 

His  eye  travelled  from  the  distant  road  to  the 
hollow  close  underneath,  and  he  seized  hold  of 
Stokes. 

"Look!"  he  said. 

A  girl  in  a  white  frock  was  coming  out  from 
138 


THE  STRAW 

the  trees  that  shut  in  the  big  house  below. 
Behind  her,  in  a  confused  army,  helter-skelter, 
hurried  the  wicked  Highland  sheep. 

"Witchcraft!"  said  Stokes,  as  overcome  as 
his  partner. 

"Watch  her,"  said  Pinner;  "she's  bringing 
them  up  here." 

She  came  with  a  running  step,  unconscious 
of  the  three  figures  gazing  at  her  —  bareheaded 
but  warm  in  her  white  woollen  dress  —  luring 
on  the  missing  flock,  now  and  then  turning  and 
shaking  something  at  them  till  they  quickened 
their  pursuit,  following  her  in  rushes,  a  huddle 
of  tossing  grey. 

Stokes  and  Pinner  bowed  down  before  her. 
Their  manner  had  just  that  touch  of  awe  that, 
when  gods  and  men  were  familiar,  might 
have  informed  an  Olympian  shepherd  thank- 
ing an  intervening  goddess.  And  Judy 
laughed. 

"These  are  your  treasures,  I  think,"  she 
said,  panting.  "I  don't  know  where  they  have 
been,  but  they  appeared  suddenly  in  the  gar- 
den. I  saw  them  from  my  window,  all  nib- 
bling at  the  yew." 

"Suicidal  mania,"  said  Stokes.  "Will  the 
perverse  little  beasts  be  seized  with  giddiness 
and  disgrace  us  ?  " 


THE  STRAW 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Gay.  "Give  them 
a  feed  and  they'll  probably  stay  a  bit.  They 
can't  have  had  enough  yew  to  poison  them." 

"That  was  how  I  charmed  them,"  said 
Judy.  "I  made  the  men  give  me  a  bag  of 
corn  at  the  stables.  Please,  they  must  not  be 
disappointed  after  following  it  so  far." 

The  Babes  sprang  obediently  to  drag  out 
the  feeding  troughs  (likewise  thrust  into  the 
riddled  hedges),  and  Judy,  stooping,  shook  out 
the  corn  she  had  carried  into  them  and 
watched  the  little  sheep  struggling  and 
gobbling  at  her  feet,  with  a  quaintly  tender 
smile. 

"I  wonder  how  long  they  could  entertain 
themselves  munching?"  said  Stokes;  and 
Pinner,  inspired  with  the  idea  of  detaining 
them  thus,  started  off  to  procure  a  further 
supply.  "We're  eternally  obliged  to  you, 
Mrs.  Lauder.  We're  expecting  the  London 
papers." 

He  glanced  at  Gay  for  help  in  expounding 
their  plight,  and  Gay,  for  the  first  time  daring 
to  accost  her,  was  steadied  by  the  quietness  in 
her  face.  Yesterday  had  not  changed  her. 
.  .  .  She  faced  him,  the  man  who  had  rashly 
proclaimed  himself  her  defender,  with  the 
same  trusting  confidence.  His  wild  outburst 

140 


THE  STRAW 

had  not  marred  with  strange  thoughts  a  com- 
radeship that  had  been  instinctive.  She  smiled 
at  him  as  she  always  used,  as  at  an  under- 
standing friend. 

"Am  I  to  explain?"  he  said.  "It  seems 
that  these  two  unlucky  fellows  have  made 
themselves  conspicuous.  They  are  anxious  to 
cut  a  decent  figure  before  the  representatives 
of  the  Press." 

"That's  why  we  are  trying  to  assemble  our 
flocks  and  herds,"  put  in  Stokes.  "The  aunt 
would  disown  us  if  we  disappointed  her  and 
were  published  broadcast  as  a  horrible  ex- 
ample." 

Judy  was  thinking.  She  looked  at  the  Babes, 
quite  serious. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  "you  must  give  them  a 
champagne  luncheon." 

"Oh,  my, what  an  inspiration!"  said  Pinner. 
"  Wouldn't  it  seem  unnatural  ?  And  how  about 
the  champagne  ?" 

"I'll  send  you  up  some,"  said  Judy.  "I'll 
tell  the  butler." 

The  Babes  suggested  that  they  should  run 
and  fetch  it,  and  darted  down  the  hill. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  said  Gay  with  the 
outward  lightheartedness  that  was  his  armour 
against  himself. 

141 


THE  STRAW 

"Thanks,"  she  said  in  the  same  spirit.  "I 
accept  your  empty  offer.  Where  ?" 

The  sheep  had  licked  the  last  oat  out  of  the 
nearer  trough,  and  he  turned  it  over. 

"It's  not  much  of  a  throne,"  he  said. 

She  sat  down  gravely,  leaning  her  chin  on  her 
hand,  gazing  down  at  the  valley.  The  sparkle 
died  in  her  eyes. 

Gay  could  not  look  at  her,  could  not  bear 
to  watch  the  sadness  that  was  coming  round 
her  mouth  as  the  pink  flush  of  excitement 
faded  and  her  smile  went.  He  had  an  odd 
feeling  that  she  liked  him  standing  near,  that 
his  inarticulate  longing  of  protection  reached 
her  somehow;  that  her  heart  wanted  it  ... 
simply  ...  as  a  child,  unhappy,  might  feel  in 
the  dark  for  the  warm  clasp  of  a  playmate's 
hand. 

For  a  time  she  said  nothing;  and  as  he  could 
not  look  at  her,  neither  could  he  speak  to  her 
without  danger.  He  would  have  liked  to  ask 
her  pardon  for  his  ill-judged  intervention,  the 
blunder  of  a  man  who  had  forgotten  himself 
and  was  ashamed  and  sorry.  But  the  words 
that  would  have  come  choked  him. 

There  was  no  wind  stirring,  not  a  rustle 
in  the  still  sharpness  of  the  air.  To  breathe 
it  was  like  drinking  in  spring  water.  It 
142 


THE  STRAW 

was  misty  on  the  horizon,  and  the  land 
was  as  quiet  as  if  enchanted.  He  heard  her 
catch  her  breath  in  a  sigh;  that  broke  his 
silence. 

"I  wish  I  could  —  do  something  for  you," 
he  said,  losing  hold  on  himself. 

"Why?"  she  said.  He  had  to  look  at  her 
then,  to  meet  her  eyes,  lifted  bravely.  "Be- 
cause you  think  I  am  not  —  always  —  happy  ? 
I  never  asked  to  be  happy;  it's  not  what  we 
are  for,  you  know." 

Yesterday  was  between  them;  it  was  not 
any  longer  possible  to  pretend  that  all  was 
right  with  the  world. 

"Yes  .  .  .  but  that  it  should  be  you!"  said 
Gay. 

"I  don't  think,"  she  said,  "that  I  have  a 
bigger  claim  on  happiness  than  another.  Some 

of  us  have  to  suffer,  and  I  would  rather 

Oh,  you  know  the  ones  who  cry  out  only  want 
others  to  suffer  for  them." 

It  was  like  her.  Gay  could  have  smiled  if 
he  had  been  less  bitterly  conscious  of  his  own 
impotence.  And  she  went  on  talking  in 
pauses,  a  vague,  womanly  understanding 
running  through  her  wistful  girlishness.  The 
atmosphere  was  tragic  and  silence  was  not 
any  longer  safe.  .  .  .  Perhaps  she  guessed 

143 


THE  STRAW 

that;  perhaps  she  was  nervous,  alone  with  the 
man  who  had  thrown  himself  unwarranted  on 
her  side. 

"People  who  want  everything,"  she  said, 
"are  too  grasping.  I  think  we  are  only  meant 
to  be  kind  to  each  other  —  not  to  fight  for 
ourselves,  to  be  greedy  for  ourselves.  The 
worst  is,  when  trying  to  help,  you  hurt  some- 
body instead.  I'm  afraid  I  ...  tried  too 
blindly  .  .  .  and  so,  if  I'm  not  .  .  .  happy, 
it's  only  because  of  my  own  mistake.  It  would 
be  cowardly  to  complain." 

And  then  she  looked  up  at  him  and  her 
breath  came  a  little  hurriedly. 

"  Will  you  let  me  ask  you  something  ?"  she 
said.  "You  won't  misunderstand  me  —  you 
won't  be  angry  ?  I  ...  like  you  so  much." 

"Anything  in  the  world,"  said  Gay. 

He  did  not  want  her  eyes  to  fall  before  his; 
he  did  not  want  her  to  falter.  Surely  he 
could  be  a  true  man  and  let  her  keep  one 
friend  ? 

"Only,"  said  Judy,  turning  paler,  "to  prom- 
ise ...  that  you  won't  be  too  kind  ...  to 
me." 

The  panting  Babes  were  coming  back,  each 
with    a    green    bottle    under   his    arm,  full    of 
144 


THE  STRAW 

gratitude  and  excitement,  metaphorically  and 
all  but  literally  falling  at  Judy's  feet.  It 
was  more  of  a  joke  than  ever,  this  threatened 
visitation  that  had  at  first  plunged  them  into 
stupid  panic,  and  they  implored  Mrs.  Lauder 
to  remain  and  preside  at  the  show.  But  she 
would  not,  and  they  gave  her  a  private  view 
of  their  possessions  and  finally  escorted  her 
down  the  hill. 

"Isn't  she  wonderful?"  said  Pinner,  who 
had  handed  her  through  the  hedge.  "He's 
gone  up  to  London;  that's  how  she  can  breathe 
and  laugh  and  look  as  if  she  wasn't  crushed. 
Fve  told  her  if  ever  she  wants  us  to  lend  a 
hand  —  I  didn't  say  what  for  —  left  that  to  her 
imagination !" 

"What  did  she  say  ?"  asked  Stokes  jealously, 
having  plotted  the  speech  himself. 

"Oh,  shook  hands  upon  it,  and  said  if  the 
house  went  on  fire  we  might  stand  up  here  and 
throw  water  on  the  roof.  Oh,  Lord,  look  at 
the  horses;  they've  all  been  and  unyoked  them- 
selves from  the  plough !" 

Lauder  was  coming  down  from  London 
by  the  last  train,  and  Judy  was  listening  for 
him,  accusing  herself  for  the  dread  in  her 
expectation.  He  liked  her  the  less  for  her 


THE  STRAW 

fear  of  him.  But  she  could  not  teach  herself 
not  to  shrink  from  unkindness  as  if  it  were  a 
blow. 

It  had  been  such  pathetic  folly,  her  marriage 
to  him;  a  hasty  impulse  of  dazzled  pity.  Was 
it  her  fault  if  she  could  not  make  him  forgive 
her  the  humbling  largesse  that  straightened 
his  ruined  path  ?  He  had  caught  despair- 
ingly at  the  straw  and,  saved,  turned,  venting 
his  humiliation  on  the  slight  thing  to  whom  he 
owed  so  much.  The  injury  was  that  he  should 
owe  it  to  her. 

She  could  do  nothing  to  efface  his  brooding 
scorn  of  her,  a  resentment  that  charged  her 
with  the  thwarting  of  his  one  real  passion  and 
laid  his  own  weakness,  his  own  disloyalty  on 
her  shoulders.  It  was  the  man's  nature,  self- 
indulgent,  unjust.  With  all  his  soul  he  hated 
the  stumbling-block. 

Judy  had  felt  it  from  the  first,  afraid  with 
the  loneliness  of  a  bird  caught  in  the  hand  of  a 
stranger.  Always  she  had  been  shy  with  him, 
and  that  was  fatal.  If  she  had  been  of  com- 
moner clay,  a  hard,  rich  woman,  a  bargainer, 
ready  to  insist  on  her  rights  and  maintain 
her  quarrel,  she  would  have  been  luckier. 
Probably  Lauder  would  have  respected  her, 
sulkily  acknowledged  her  his  equal.  A  coarser 

146 


THE  STRAW 

woman,  a  railing  woman,  might  have  beaten 
him  to  his  knees.  .  .  . 

Judy  could  only  shrink,  terrified,  the  first 
time  his  ill-humour  towards .  her  betrayed  it- 
self; and  her  look  of  wondering  pain  had 
angered  him,  increased  his  grudge. 

She  saw  that  others  knew  there  was  some- 
thing wrong.  People  cast  pitying  glances  at 
her,  looked  sometimes  askance  at  Lauder, 
telling  each  other  why.  She  heard  the  whispers 
go  round,  and  she  felt  shamed. 

And  yesterday  .  .  .  ah,  yesterday  .  .  . ! 

Strangely  enough  she  had  not  yet  appre- 
hended the  inevitable  gossip  that  might  or 
might  not  pass  over  Gay's  explosion  as  one  of 
his  characteristic  deeds.  Lauder's  laugh  after- 
wards had  been  ugly;  but  he  had  not  said 
much.  It  was  not  on  that  account  that  she 
had  spoken  to  her  champion,  nor  altogether 
for  his  sake. 

The  recollection  came  back  to  her  and  made 
her  tremble.  She  shut  her  eyes  and  locked 
her  hands  together,  caught  in  its  grip.  The 
dim  winter  afternoon,  the  galloping  horses, 
a  man  plunging  down  clumsily  in  his  spurred 
boots  to  pull  her  up  the  rotten  bank,  encour- 
aging her  with  gruff  kindness  whilst  he  looked 
with  grim  approval  at  Gay.  That  Gay  ? 


THE  STRAW 

That,  the  good  comrade  Gay,  whom  she  had 
never  known  angry  .  .  .  ? 

"//  /  catch  you  bullying  your  wife  again,  you 
brute,  I'll  kill  you!" 

Why  should  it  bring  the  colour  into  her 
cheek,  make  her  hands  shake  and  her  heart 
beat  ?  Why  should  it  make  her  feel  almost 
safe,  almost  happy  ? 

She  fingered  the  pearls  at  her  throat  with 
unconscious  tenderness.  Ah,  strange,  absurd, 
vain  mirage  of  happiness  ! 

Outside  the  house  whirred  a  motor.  In 
another  minute  Lauder  would  have  come  in. 

"If  I  catch  you  bullying  your  wife  — 

How  the  words  rang  in  her  ears.  .  .  .  She 
rose  to  go  and  meet  her  husband  and  wondered 
why  she  was  not  afraid. 

There  was  a  mirror  between  her  and  the  door, 
and  she  saw  her  face  in  it  and  saw  that  she  was 
smiling.  Surely  she  must  be  mad. 

The  thrill  passed,  leaving  her  faint  as  she 
understood  why,  not  all  for  his  sake,  and  not 
at  all  for  the  world's  opinion,  she  had  asked 
Gay  not  to  be  too  kind  to  her. 


148 


CHAPTER  VIII 

TOKENHOUSE,  sauntering  into  the  house 
on  the  following  Sunday  afternoon,  was 
saluted  by  a  prevailing  scent,  not  tobacco. 
He  stopped  on  the  threshold  sniffing,  but  fail- 
ing to  identify  it  stepped  gingerly  through  the 
hall  to  the  kitchen  to  reconnoitre. 

Mrs.  Crow's  pinched  look  of  virtuous  repro- 
bation showed  that  she  too  smelt  it,  French 
and  mysterious,  in  her  nostrils. 

"Who  is  the  lady?"  said  Tokenhouse.  A 
strong  whiff  floated  down  the  passage. 

"She's  calling  on  you,  my  lord,"  said  Mrs. 
Crow  reproachfully.  "I  been  singin'  hymns 
when  she  strit  into  the  house  unknown  to  me, 
and  come  in  here  and  asked  for  you.  I  told 
her  you  was  gone  to  church." 

"Good,"  said  Tokenhouse,  chuckling  at  her 
expression.  "What  is  she  like?" 

"One  of  them  hunting  madams,"  said  Mrs. 
Crow. 

Tokenhouse  retired  slowly,  locating  the 
149 


THE  STRAW 

visitor  by  his  nose,  and  found  her  in  the  library. 
His  countenance  changed  as  he  saw  who  it 
was. 

"Who  did  you  take  me  for?"  said  Maria. 

"Upon  my  honour,"  said  Tokenhouse,  "I 
was  all  at  sea.  I  could  not  imagine  what 
alarming  enchantress  had  deposited  herself  in 
this  quiet  house.  That  scent  of  yours  is 
enough  to  compromise  an  angel." 

"Do  you  notice  anything?"  said  Maria, 
annoyed. 

"Certainly,"  said  Tokenhouse;  "that  was 
how  I  smelt  you  out." 

"Extraordinary!"  she  said.  She  took  off 
her  furs  and  cast  them  from  her. 

"They  belonged  to  that  Russian  baroness 
who  poisoned  herself,"  she  said.  "I  bought 
them  at  the  inquest  —  I  mean  the  sale.  I've 
drenched  them  in  eau-de-Cologne,  and  still 
they  reek  of  that  kind  of  person.  Dicky  hates 
me  to  wear  them;  he  calls  it  callous - 

"You  women  rejoice  in  a  convenient  want 
of  imagination,"  said  Tokenhouse.  The  furs 
were  slipping  to  the  floor,  and  he  hung  them 
over  the  back  of  a  chair,  handling  them  with 
a  queer  gentleness.  The  perfume  had  not 
been  altogether  strange  to  him;  he  remem- 
bered. ...  "At  least,  that  is  how  we  try  to 

150 


THE  STRAW 

excuse  you  the  fluff  and  feathers  your  devilish 
vanity  makes  you  stick  on  your  heads." 

"You  talk  as  if  I  had  had  her  killed,"  said 
Maria  peevishly.  Tokenhouse  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"You  bring  an  uncanny  atmosphere  into 
this  humdrum  house,"  he  said.  "Suggestions 
of  tragedies.  How  pleasant  you  cannot  feel 
it."  Sarcasm  was  wasted  on  Maria.  It  only 
brought  a  look  of  perplexity  to  her  meddle- 
some, but  not  unkindly,  face,  with  its  prying 
nose  and  its  domineering  chin,  already  double. 

"Sit  down,"  she  said.  "I  have  come  to 
consult  you.  Talking  of  tragedies  -  - !  Shut 
the  door,  please,  in  case  that  crazy  house- 
keeper strikes  up  in  the  middle.  She  has  been 
shrilling  pious  profanity  at  me  for  the  past 
half-hour.  What  possessed  you  to  go  to 
church?" 

"I  was  escorting  Mrs.  Lauder,"  said  Token- 
house.  "I  suppose  you  know  Gay  is  out 
somewhere.  Shall  I  order  tea  ?" 

"Do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Maria. 
"Dicky  is  coming  for  me  at  four.  I  told  him 
I  had  to  talk  secrets  with  you.  We  are  wretched 
in  our  new  house;  no  room  for  ourselves, 
and  yet  he  can't  be  parted  from  his  stuffed 
beasts,  and  I  have  to  squeeze  into  my  bedroom 


THE  STRAW 

dodging  a  lion's  paw.  Oh,  Tokenhouse,  for 
heaven's  sake  do  sit  down  !  You  look  so  long 
and  thin  and  spidery  and  unfeeling.  What 
am  I  to  do  about  my  cousin  Judy?" 

Tokenhouse  sank  into  his  deep  chair  and 
began  to  roll  a  cigarette,  thoughtfully  staring 
at  the  golden-brown  furs  that  she  had  dis- 
carded. Ah,  that  scent  .  .  .  and  the  woman. 
His  gaze  was  reminiscent. 

"You  anticipate  —  tragedy  ?"  he  said. 

Maria  made  a  gesture  of  helplessness. 

"It  is  incomprehensible,"  she  said,  "how 
all  my  marriages  turn  out  badly.  I  can't 
remember  one  that  hasn't  been  a  disappoint- 
ment. Except  my  own,  and  I  had  nothing 
to  do  with  that.  Poor  Dicky  is  so  pig-headed. 
Nothing  would  induce  him  to  look  at  the  nice 
widow  I  had  in  my  eye  for  him  —  suited  to 
him  in  every  way.  When  I  pointed  it  out  to 
him  he  coolly  proposed  to  me.  Would  do  it; 
and  took  me  so  by  surprise.  .  .  .  Really,  if 
I  were  a  superstitious  woman  - 

She  paused  and  looked  distressfully  at 
Tokenhouse. 

"I  introduced  Eva  to  her  husband,"  she 
said,  "and  she's  divorced.  And  Harry  Larkin, 
who  met  his  wife  at  my  house,  was  eaten  up 
by  a  bear.  And  poor  Susie,  Susie  who  married 

152 


THE  STRAW 

millions,  is  semi-detached;  and  Roddy  Pirn 
is  in  a  lunatic  asylum  —  sunstroke.  And  now 
there's  Bill.  /  gave  him  a  chance  to  pull  up; 
/  rescued  him  from  Sophia.  Dicky  says  the 
way  he  behaves  to  his  wife  is  a  scandal !" 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?"  said  Token- 
house,  interrupting  her  list  of  casualties. 

"It  is  such  a  comfort  talking  to  you,"  said 
Maria.  "You  are  so  safe,  so  outside  all  that. 
...  I  want  you  to  help  me  to  smooth  things 
over,  to  look  after  Judy,  and  prevent  your  friend 
Gay  from  making  her  conspicuous.  After  that 
disgraceful  tale  of  his  threatening  Bill  in  the 
hunting-field,  one  feels  that  anything  might 
happen." 

"I  see,"  said  Tokenhouse.  "You  wish  me 
to  be  a  harmless  damper  on  Gay's  chivalrous 
hot-headedness,  and  to  watch  unostentatiously 
over  another  man's  wife  ?  It's  hardly  my 
place,  you  know." 

"You  are  the  only  person  who  could,"  said 
Maria  hastily.  She  was  a  schemer  whose 
ingenuity  was  exhausted  in  bringing  the  wrong 
people  together,  and  who  was  always  bewil- 
dered by  her  catastrophes.  "A  woman  can't 
do  much,  and  Dicky  has  no  influence  what- 
ever with  anyone  but  himself.  You  won't 
lose  your  head." 


THE  STRAW 

Tokenhouse  blew  a  thin  cloud  of  smoke 
and  watched  it  fading. 

"As  you  suggest,  it  seems  to  be  my  ap- 
pointed role,"  he  said,  "but  you  come  too 
late.  My  dear  woman,  I  have  been  doing 
nothing  else  for  weeks." 

"Thanks  awfully,"  said  Maria  immediately, 
and  rose  as  if  her  business  had  been  con- 
cluded. "Is  that  Dicky?" 

Tokenhouse  stood  up  and  looked  towards 
the  window,  crossing  the  room,  with  his 
cigarette  in  his  fingers. 

"That,"  he  said,  "is  not  the  grinding  of 
Dicky's  car.  I  rather  think  it's  another  lady 
coming  to  favour  me." 

Mrs.  Burkinshaw  snatched  up  her  furs  as  the 
notes  of  a  high,  lazy  voice  floated  in  to  her  ears. 

"Sophia  Bland,"  she  said.  "Really,  Token- 
house  -  — !" 

"You  had  better  stay  and  chaperon  us,"  he 
said.  "I  assure  you  I  wasn't  expecting  either 
of  you,  so  I  am  blameless." 

"7-  '  began  the  British  matron,  but  for- 
bore further  justification.  The  hoot  of  Burkin- 
shaw's  motor  made  it  easy  for  her  to  depart 
with  the  honours  of  war,  and  a  haughty 
salutation  to  the  invader  sailing  unconcernedly 
up  the  steps. 


THE  STRAW 

"  Has  Maria  fled  before  me  ?  How  flatter- 
ing," said  Sophia  Bland.  "Open  the  window, 
for  heaven's  sake.  She  must  have  been  wearing 
her  haunted  furs." 

She  sat  down  in  the  chair  Maria  had  vacated, 
untwisting  her  vivid  green  scarf. 

"I  saw  Gay  riding  out  to  lunch,"  she  said 
casually,  "and  so  the  infant  and  I  walked  up 
to  have  tea  with  you.  Baby,  run  and  help  the 
lady  in  the  kitchen;  she'll  let  you  make  toast, 
I'm  sure." 

Fanty,  an  imp  in  scarlet,  vanished,  but  not 
to  join  Mrs.  Crow.  She  took  possession  of 
the  dining-room,  persuaded  the  dogs  she 
found  sprawling  on  the  hearth  to  form  a  con- 
gregation, and  played  at  being  two  preach- 
ers, popping  in  and  out  of  rival  pulpits,  like 
a  small  conjuror.  A  habit  of  doubling  herself 
in  all  her  games  was  her  expression  of  an  un- 
defined loneliness. 

"This  is  good  of  you,"  said  Tokenhouse. 

"Don't  look  so  alarmed,"  said  Sophia. 
"I  have  not  come  to  make  terrible  confidences. 
.  .  .  We  used  to  be  great  pals,  Tokenhouse, 
before  your  accident,  before  you  dropped  out 
of  things." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  in  a  non-committal  tone. 

She   glanced   lazily   round   the   room.       Al- 


THE  STRAW 

though  she  gave  an  impression  of  a  large,  lazy, 
good-natured  woman,  her  eyes,  generally  half 
shut,  had  hidden  fire  in  them.  As  far  as 
Tokenhouse  could  remember  she  had  never 
played  on  him  her  dangerous  sidelong  glances. 
There  was  no  earthly  reason  why  she  should 
do  it  now. 

"I  see  you  have  Peppermint's  portrait  up 
there,"  she  said,  "sandwiched  between  two 
of  Gay's  family  gods.  He  was  a  good  horse. 
Do  you  remember  that  other  day  I  had  tea 
with  you  ?  The  day  I  lost  my  party  at  some 
ridiculous  country  meeting,  where  you  had 
ridden  Peppermint  —  and  we  both  missed  the 
train  back  and  sat  for  three  hours  drink- 
ing hot  tannin  and  hugging  the  fire  in  a 
dreadful  public-house  —  and  it  rained  and 
rained-  — !" 

"Your  dress  was  ruined,"  said  Tokenhouse, 
"and  the  man  you  were  flirting  with  had 
caught  the  train  —  with  another  —  and  you 
were  raging,  a  thunderstorm  in  yourself.  .  .  ." 

"You  remember  too  much,"  she  said. 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair  with  an  affecta- 
tion of  languid  amusement  that  did  not  im- 
pose on  him. 

"How  comfortable  you  are  in  here,"  she 
said.  "I  always  want  to  talk  of  old  times 
156 


THE  STRAW 

when  I  stare  into  a  fire  like  that.  But  isn't  it 
rather  a  pity?" 

"What?"  he  asked. 

"To  throw  up  everything,"  said  Sophia, 
"to  sink  into  a  kind  of  hermit.  You  used  to 
ride  so  magnificently,  Tokenhouse.  You  never 
lost  a  race  - 

"Except  the  last,"  he  said  significantly. 
Her  impatience  was  diplomatic. 

"What  does  that  matter?"  she  said.  "It's 
two  years  ago.  You  talk  as  if  you  were  a  hope- 
less cripple.  It's  not  fair  to  yourself;  it 
gives  people  a  wrong  idea.  The  other  day  a 
man  asked  me  if  you  were  mad." 

"I  wonder,"  he  said,  unmoved,  "what  you 
told  him." 

"I  told  him,"  said  Sophia,  meeting  his  look 
with  an  audacious  frankness  as  she  threw  her 
cards  on  the  table,  "that  you  were  going  to 
ride  Slipper  for  me  in  the  Point-to- Point." 

She  waited.  Across  the  hall  the  infant  could 
be  heard  discoursing  in  an  affected  sing-song, 
interrupted  by  the  collapse  of  one  pulpit,  and 
the  delighted  barks  of  the  congregation. 

Along  the  passage  came  a  faint  clattering 
of  china. 

"My  dear  Sophia!"  said  Tokenhouse.  "I 
don't  ride.  I  have  forgotten  how." 


THE  STRAW 

"Please!"  she  said.  "I  have  set  my  heart 
on  it.  If  you  ride  him  I  know  he'll  win.  Don't 
talk  nonsense.  A  man  never  loses  his  knack 
—  a  man  like  you." 

She  was  coaxing  him  with  assurance,  used 
to  carrying  her  way  with  a  high  hand. 

"Let  me  feel  your  arm,"  she  said.  "There, 
what  did  I  tell  you  ?  It's  as  hard  as  iron." 

"Possibly,"  he  said.  "I  do  some  eccentric 
exercises  with  dumb-bells  occasionally;  purely 
habit.  It's  no  good,  Sophia;  you  can't  cajole 
me." 

"Oh,  but  I  must,"  she  said.  "I  have  set 
my  heart  on  the  thing.  What  a  triumph  !" 

He  laughed,  not  bitterly,  but  contemptu- 
ously, like  a  man  acknowledging  a  weakness  in 
himself. 

"Don't  you  know,"  he  said,  "that  I  have 
lost  my  nerve,  that  the  mere  thought  of  a 
gallop  across  country  makes  me  shiver  ?  It 
sounds  absurd,  but  it's  the  plain  truth.  It's 
a  kind  of  disease,  a  neurotic  obsession  —  any- 
thing you  like.  But,  unfortunately,  it  is  un- 
conquerable. That  spill  shook  me  out  of 
myself,  made  an  old  woman  of  me." 

"And  yet  you  can  look  on  ?"  she  said. 

"Yes;  I  can  look  on.  It  is  all  I  am  fit  for. 
Don't  waste  your  arguments  on  a  wreck.  Ask 
158 


THE  STRAW 

somebody  else.  Ask"  -  his  smile  broadened  — 
"your  last  admirer." 

Her  eyes  flickered  at  him. 

"Why  don't  you  say-  '  she  said,  'Ask 
Bill'?" 

"Because,"  he  said,  "you  probably  want 
to  beat  him." 

"He  can  ride  his  wife's  horses,"  said  Sophia. 
"You  are  one  of  her  partisans,  aren't  you? 
You  think  her  an  injured  angel.  Well,  I  gave 
him  up  to  her.  Let  her  keep  him.  .  .  .  Only, 
if  you  won't  do  this  for  me,  Tokenhouse  - 

"What  then  ?"  he  said,  unshaken. 

"Oh,  I  make  no  —  promises,"  she  said  darkly. 

Mrs.  Crow  was  bringing  in  tea,  followed  by 
the  infant,  who  scorned  to  sit  at  the  oaken 
table  and  eat  her  bread  and  jam,  but  went 
and  built  herself  two  houses  out  of  the  largest 
books  at  the  far  end  of  the  room.  She  had  a 
cup  and  saucer  in  each,  and  visited  from  one 
to  the  other,  her  lank,  flaxen  head  just  visible 
above  a  rampart  of  stacked  volumes,  as  she 
squatted  chirping  to  herself. 

Sophia  possessed  herself  of  the  teapot.  Her 
manner  was  softer,  almost  beguiling.  She 
was  not  yet  in  despair. 

"Talking   of  my    admirers,"   she   said.     "I 


THE  STRAW 

have  thrown  over  the  horse-tamer,  as  Lord 
Robert  calls  him.  I  really  could  not  stand 
the  wretch,  and  besides  —  I'll  be  honest  —  my 
rudeness  palled  on  him  after  a  while,  and 
people  told  him  tales.  I  am  an  exemplary 
creature,  but  so  many  of  them  hate  me." 

"You  are  a  little  careless,"  said  Tokenhouse. 
"A  little  inclined  to  trample." 

"And  yet,"  she  said,  "I  can  be  very  nice  to 
my  —  friends." 

She  looked  almost  handsome  as  she  sat 
watching  him,  her  hair  puffed  against  the 
cushion,  her  face  half  serious,  half  jesting. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "I  am  tempted 
to  imitate  Maria.  Are  you  never  included  in 
her  designs  ?  To  suggest  that  what  you  want 
is  a  wife,  a  stirring,  amusing  woman,  who 
would  shake  you  up  and  be  good  to  you.  Aren't 
you  frightfully  lonely,  Tokenhouse,  living 
in  this  odd  way,  pretending  you  are  a 
fossil?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  he  said.  "I  have  too 
many  privileges.  All  you  women  look  upon 
me  as  a  tame  cat,  purring  congenial  advice 
and,  when  required,  consolation.  You  don't 
take  me  too  seriously." 

"If  you  liked,"  said  Sophia,  with  a  signifi- 
cant pause,  "we  would !" 
1 60 


THE  STRAW 

"Ah,"  he  said  coolly,  "but  I  know  my 
limitations.  I  am  not  capable  of  entering 
into  an  offensive  and  defensive  alliance  with 
anybody,  however  kind  she  might  be  in  making 
allowances.  My  dear  Sophia  - 

He  waited,  as  if  tasting  the  flavour  of  a 
joke  that  was  his  own  pleasant  property 
before  sharing  it  with  her.  His  curiously 
tired  expression  became,  for  once,  almost 
brisk. 

"Don't  you  remember,"  he  said,  "how 
shortly  after  that  —  accident,  my  kind  relations 
endeavoured  to  have  me  declared  —  what  is 
the  polite  word  for  imbecile  ?  They  swore 
that  the  crash  had  affected  my  head  and  left 
me  helpless  to  look  after  my  own  concerns. 
I  am  afraid  they  made  rather  fools  of  them- 
selves; they  were  a  little  too  eager  to  step 
into  my  shoes.  At  least,  the  court  would  not 
entertain  their  application.  I  am  pronounced 
sane  and  sober.  That,  of  course,  is  a  matter 
of  opinion,  and  I  contrive  to  keep  mine  to 
myself.  It  would  be  cruel  to  increase  their 
disappointment.  I  remain  my  own  master, 
but  let  them  cling  to  their  hopes  of  succession. 
No,(  I  seem  to  have  no  inclination  to  accept 
your  brilliant  prescription.  My  dear  Sophia, 
it  wouldn't  do." 


THE  STRAW 

He  shook  his  head  at  her  slightly,  dismissing 
an  impossible  idea. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said  —  there  was  pique  in 
her  voice,  "you  never  remotely  cared  for  a 
woman.  And  yet,  at  one  time,  I  actually 
imagined  - 

"I  fancy  strange  things  myself,"  said  Token- 
house,  rather  oddly. 

For  a  moment  his  look  was  abstracted, 
almost  wistful.  He  flicked  the  ash  off  his  ciga- 
rette into  the  fire  and  laughed.  "  No  —  we  are 
none  of  us  safe.  All  the  same,  Sophia,  many 
thanks  for  your  kind  intentions.  I  agree  with 
you  that  it  is  a  sad  pity  my  infirmities  won't 
allow  me  —  to  ride  your  horse." 

She  picked  up  her  scarf  and  began  twisting 
it  round  her  neck. 

Having  failed  in  our  mission,"  she  said  - 
her  voice  had  lost  its  laziness  in  chagrin  - 
"we'll  go." 

Tokenhouse  rose,  putting  aside  his  bantering 
lightness  for  a  suddenly  graver  tone.  Some- 
thing in  his  attitude  warned  her.  She  was  face 
to  face  with  a  queer  sense  of  the  unknown  in 
him,  and  waited  for  him  to  speak,  expecting 
she  knew  not  what.  , 

"Well?"  she  said  nervously. 

"If  you   wouldn't   call   it   impertinent,"    he 
162 


THE  STRAW 

said,  "I  should  like  to  ask  you  if  you  quite 
realise  what  you  are  doing  to  Lauder.  You 
are  driving  him  mad,  Sophia." 

"/?"  she  said.  "I've  behaved  with  most 
marvellous  circumspection." 

But  her  bold  eyes  dropped  before  his. 

"I  think  we  understand  each  «>ther,"  he  said 
very  quietly.  "You  want  to  punish  him, 
and  you  do  it  cleverly.  You  never  let  him 
alone  —  never  let  him  forget ;  you  tantalise 
him  and  turn  on  him  with  implacable  scorn, 
keeping  the  fire  alight.  I  don't  know  what 
devil  taught  you  to  madden  a  man  like 
that- 

"I  don't  understand  you  at  all,"  she  said. 
"What  can  it  matter  to  you?"  Her  eyes 
began  to  glitter. 

"Only,"  said  Tokenhouse,  "because  it  falls 
heavily  on  his  wife." 

Sophia  flung  up  her  head  and  burst  into 
discordant  laughter,  like  an  hysterical  child. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  so  that's  it  —  that's  it ! " 

She  was  not  prepared  to  find  in  him  another 
attitude  than  that  to  which  she  was  accus- 
tomed; it  was  impossible  to  awaken  him  to 
action,  to  change  him  to  suit  her  purpose. 
It  was  the  more  astonishing  that  he  should 
seize  her  wrists,  looking  down  upon  her 

163 


THE  STRAW 

laughter  with  a  tightened  mouth  and  eyes 
that  were  like  steel. 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "that's  it.  Don't  think 
either  you  or  Lauder  are  worth  considering 
except  in  so  far  as  you  trouble  her." 

Sophia  Bland  wrenched  her  hands  free,  at 
a  loss  to  knowilwhy  they  trembled. 

"So  all  the  world  is  on  her  side!"  she  said. 

Tokenhouse  had  recovered  his  equanimity. 
He  looked  into  her  startled  face  with  all  his 
former  nonchalance. 

"It  is,"  he  said.  "Even  I  am  roused. 
Hot-headed  fellows  like  Gay  are  born  to  play 
knight-errant;  but  the  position  is  serious 
when  I  go  down  the  lists.  I  can't  think  how 
any  woman  can  make  another  woman  un- 
happy; it  seems  unnatural.  You  want  all 
your  strength  to  help  each  other.  I  can't 
understand  how  a  woman  can  be  a  traitor. 
Can't  you  pretend  to  care  a  little  for  anybody 
but  yourself?" 

"If  you  expect  me  to  love  that  girl-  — !" 
said  Sophia.  He  interrupted  her. 

"I  don't  expect  miracles,"  he  said.  "I  am 
simply  advising  you  that  her  unhappiness  lies 
at  your  door.  Don't  make  yourself  answer- 
able for  too  much." 

"Preacher!"  she  said,  and  called  to  Fanty, 
164 


THE  STRAW 

who  came  unwillingly  to  wriggle  into  her 
coat.  "Perhaps  if  I  were  a  little  puling  thing 
with  large  eyes  and  a  confiding  smile  you 
would  champion  my  cause  instead.  I  can't 
understand  the  infatuation  that  drives  you 
men  to  lose  your  hearts  as  you  do  to  the  weak- 
est of  us.  She  can't  hold  a  horse.  .  .  .  I've 
seen  her  turn  pale,  and  the  reins  slipping 
through  her  fingers  .  .  .  and  how  can  she 
hold  a  man  ?  Oh,  I  am  not  jealous  of  her  - 
heaven  knows  I  have  little  cause !  She  bought 
him.  As  you  say,  I  don't  care  for  anybody  — 
unless  it's  that  infant.  She's  the  only  thing 
I  have  that  can't  be  taken  from  me  —  not  even 
by  the  bailiffs." 

"Is  it  peace?"  said  Tokenhouse,  holding 
open  the  door  for  her.  "No  doubt  I  have 
done  more  harm  than  good." 

She  smiled  at  him  enigmatically. 

"Oh,  it  is  peace,"  she  said.  "I  don't  want 
to  quarrel  with  you.  One  lets  you  say  things 
because  you  are  not  an  ordinary  person.  Only, 
Tokenhouse,  it's  pleasanter  when  you  don't 
look  as  if  you  meant  them.  You  took  away 
my  breath.  .  .  .  Of  course,  you  have  done 
more  harm  than  good.  What  adviser  with  the 
best  intentions  ever  did  otherwise  ?  You  didn't 
even  hold  out  a  bribe  - 

165 


THE  STRAW 

She  gave  the  last  word  meaning. 

"I  have  nothing  to  offer,"  said  Tokenhouse, 
"that  would  bid  you  hold  your  hand." 

She  went  down  the  steps  without  looking 
back,  and  walked  on  towards  the  village  with 
the  infant  dancing  like  a  sprite  in  her  train. 
It  was  scarcely  dusk. 

As  became  a  Sunday  afternoon  in  the  country 
there  were  sweethearts  abroad,  hanging  over 
the  gates  or  marching  in  unabashed  rustic 
fashion  along  the  highway;  the  girl  —  if  the 
swain  were  neglectful  —  advertising  her  prop- 
erty in  him  by  walking  with  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder.  Sophia's  lip  curled  as  she  passed, 
an  object  of  awed  attention  to  the  pairs  turning 
their  heads  to  look  after  her. 

All  this  love-making  was  a  trivial  pastime, 
contemptible,  common,  adding  strangely  to 
her  fierceness  of  discontent.  What  fools  there 
were  in  the  world  ! 

She  had  reached  the  bottom  of  the  lane 
and  was  turning  down  to  the  village  with 
Fanty  running  ahead,  hurrying  with  childish 
eagerness  to  peer  into  the  glimmering  belt 
of  trees  that  darkened  the  wayside,  and  held 
heaven  knew  what  imaginary  wild  creatures  - 
when  she  saw  the  man  she  was  thinking  of. 
It  was  not  surprising  that  he  should  start 
166 


THE  STRAW 

up  in  her  path  as  if  her  spirit  had  summoned 
him.  Was  he  not  always  there,  sulkily  watch- 
ful for  a  shadow  of  relenting  ? 

"Are  you  going  to  speak  to  me  ?"  he  said. 

"I  am  not  sure,"  said  she. 

He  grasped  at  the  slight  concession  and  fell 
into  step  beside  her. 

"Oh,"  she  cried  at  him  then,  "don't  let  MJ, 
of  all  people  —  moon  side  by  side  like  a  kitchen- 
maid  and  a  groom!" 

"Just  as  you  like,"  said  Lauder.  "Ask  me 
into  your  house  if  you  don't  want  me  to  haunt 
your  steps.  Who  is  riding  Slipper  for  you  in 
the  Point-to-Point  ?" 

"What  do  you  know  about  him?"  she 
said.  He  braved  her  disdainful  look  stub- 
bornly. 

"How  can  I  help  it?"  he  said.  "I  hear 
scraps." 

"I  have  just  been  up  to  ask  Tokenhouse," 
she  said. 

It  was  not  too  dusk  to  see  him  redden. 

"Once,"  he  said,  "you'd  never  have  dreamt 
of  asking  anyone  but  me.  Tokenhouse  ?  He 
can't  ride." 

"He  says  not,"  she  said. 

"He  can't,  I  tell  you.  Let  me  ride  the 
horse;  I  know  him.  I've  ridden  him  for  you 

167 


THE  STRAW 

ever  since  you  had  him.     I   believe  if  I  saw 
another  man  up  I'd  - 

"You  ride  him?"  she  interrupted.  "You 
forget,  Bill,  that  we've  washed  our  hands 
of  each  other.  And  I  want  my  horse  to 
win." 

"I'll  win  on  him,"  said  the  man. 

His  eye  was  dull,  and  his  face  looked  bloated, 
but  his  voice  was  keen. 

"I've  not  been  steady  lately,  I  know,"  he 
said.  "Don't  look  at  me  like  that.  I'll  pull 
up.  Let  me  ride  for  you  and  I'll  win  his  race, 
or  break  his  neck  and  my  own." 

He  waited  for  the  inevitable  taunt,  the  bit- 
ter check  on  his  approach  towards  a  forfeited 
intimacy.  Did  he  not  know  just  how  this 
woman  would  turn  on  him,  lashing  him  with 
her  tongue  ?  She  was  continually  teaching 
him  that  he  was  shut  out  of  her  existence, 
too  despicable  in  her  eyes  for  more  than  a 
biting  word.  But  the  jealousy  that  consumed 
him  at  the  thought  of  another  man  taking  his 
place  with  her,  riding  the  horse  he  knew,  drove 
him.  to  push  his  useless  claim.  Somehow  this 
last  trifle  hit  him  harder  than  anything  - 
made  him  mad. 

The    mocking    refusal    did    not    smite    him 
as   quickly   as   he   expected,    and   he   took   an 
168 


THE  STRAW 

incredulous  look  at  her.     It  was  not  possible 
that  she  was  relenting.  .  .  . 

"I'll  be  generous,  Bill,"  she  said.  "I'll  let 
you  ride  him.  But  you  needn't  build  on  that. 
And  mind,  you  are  to  win." 

Amazement  at  the  favour  took  all  the  sting 
out  of  her  grudging  grant.  His  voice  was 
thick  and  his  face  darkly  flushed  as  he  swore 
that  there  should  be  no  defeat. 

"What  is  the  infant  doing?"  said  Sophia 
with  astonishment.  Fanty  had  arrived  at  the 
patch  of  firs  and  was  executing  a  war-dance, 
inciting  villains  within  to  issue  forth  and  be 
slain.  Her  challenge  was  pitched  in  an  ex- 
ulting key,  and  as  she  made  little  rushes  at 
the  place  of  mysterious  darkness,  something 
gleamed  in  her  hand.  At  their  approach  she 
dived  in  among  the  firs. 

"Baby,  what  is  that  you  have  got?"  said 
Sophia  sharply.  The  little  shrill  voice  pealed 
out  of  the  glimmer,  behind  a  tree. 

"  I'm  playing  at  a  robber  and  a  policeman. 
I  took  Lord  Tokenhouse's  pistol  what  he  shoots 
at  hawks." 

"Good  heavens!"  said  Sophia.  "Bring  it 
here,  baby!" 

"Die,  false  hound!"  hissed  Fanty  to  the 
robber,  paying  no  more  attention. 

169 


THE  STRAW 

"The  little  wretch!"  said  Sophia.  "She 
must  have  hidden  it  in  her  sash.  It's  sure  to 
be  loaded.  Baby,  baby,  give  it  up!" 

But  Fanty,  armed  and  irresistible,  had  sprung 
behind  another  tree  and  was  defying  the  myrmi- 
don of  the  law.  She  was  the  robber  now,  in- 
vincible in  his  den. 

"She's  got  it  by  the  right  end,"  said  Lauder. 

"Take  it  away  from  her,"  said  Sophia  with 
a  shudder. 

Lauder  plunged  heavily  over  the  ditch,  in 
amongst  the  trees,  pursuing  the  infant's  eldritch 
laughter  as  she  twisted  invisibly,  avoiding  him. 
It  was  a  dangerous  game,  until  he  caught  her 
wrist,  wringing  the  revolver  out  of  her  clutch. 

"That  was  a  real  play,"  she  panted,  con- 
gratulating herself.  She  scrambled  into  the 
road  after  him,  excited  and  utterly  unrepent- 
ant. 

"It's  a  miracle  she  didn't  shoot  it  off," 
said  Lauder.  "I'll  bet  she  knows  how,  the 
imp!" 

Sophia  caught  Fanty's  hand  in  hers,  shaking 
her  and  then  squeezing  her  to  her  side. 

"You  are  a  fiend,  baby,"  she  said.     "Don't 
exhibit  the  horrible  thing  to  me,  Bill;   it  makes 
me  ill  to  see  it.     She  must  have  hunted  it  out 
and  carried  it  off  on  purpose." 
170 


THE  STRAW 

Lauder  slipped  the  revolver  into  his  pocket. 
He  was  out  of  breath. 

"I  frightened  you  very  much,"  said  Fanty 
delightedly.  "It  was  like  being  a  true  robber," 
and  she  sighed.  "What's  he  going  to  do  with 
my  gun  ?" 

"Give  it  back  to  Lord  Tokenhouse,"  said 
Sophia.  Unconsciously  her  voice  had  fallen 
into  the  old  familiar  accents.  "Won't  you, 
Bill?" 

"There's  no  hurry,"  said  Lauder.  "I'm 
going  on  with  you  to  the  village." 

"I  don't  see  that,"  said  the  woman.  "You 
can  ride  Slipper;  I  said  so.  And  perhaps  .  .  . 
if  you  win  -  -!" 

She  left  the  rest  ambiguous,  but  dismissed 
him. 


171 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  THAW  had  come,  and  all  the  world  was 
again  in  the  saddle  after  an  awful  pause. 

Instead  of  fractious  processions  of  hooded 
and  sheeted  hunters,  mincing  by  in  the  hard 
middle  of  the  road,  the  lanes  were  awakened 
to  the  trotting  of  small  parties  of  two  and 
three.  Horse  and  man  turned  up  at  the  meets 
with  the  exuberant  freshness  of  captives  let 
out  of  school. 

"I  am  looking  forward,"  said  Lord  Robert, 
"to  hearing  the  water  squirt  after  us  in  the 
furrows.  Delightful  sound !  All  I  ask  of 
nature  is  a  little  ^ain,  just  sufficient  to  take  the 
twist  out  of  your  moustache  so  that  you  can 
suck  the  ends  and  feel  happy.  It  may  be 
prejudice,  but  I  cannot  bear  to  see  the  country 
starched." 

They  were   cantering  down    to    Burbidge's. 
Hounds  had  been  flirting  wide  in  search  of  an 
outlier,  and  had  already  gone  over  higher  up; 
172 


THE  STRAW 

but  the  field  was  held  back  at  the  railway 
crossing  to  await  the  passing  of  an  express. 
The  man  patrolling  with  a  red  flag  jumped  up 
on  the  gate  to  watch  hounds  go  into  the 
cover,  with  his  back  to  the  barred  and  im- 
patient host.  Smoke  drifted  in  their  faces, 
hanging  low  in  the  rainy  atmosphere,  blotting 
out  Burbidge's  from  their  view. 

"Pah!"  said  Rafferty,  wheeling  his  thick- 
set cob,  who  had  indulged  in  no  antics  although 
pulled  up  with  his  nose  at  the  white  bars 
of  the  railway  gate.  "  Hi,  my  man !  Get 
down  there,  and  let  us  through." 

The  man  shook  his  head  without  turning  it, 
his  eyes  glued  to  the  pack  sniffing  among  the 
badger  earths  in  the  old  canal  bank  and  finally 
disappearing  into  the  evergreen  mystery  of  the 
cover. 

"Patience!"  said  Lord  Robert,  reproving 
him..  "Do  you  want  the  down  train  to  cut 
us  all  in  pieces  ?  I  dare  say  the  fox'll  wait  our 
convenience.  Don't  you  like  the  taste  of 
smoke  ?  It  swallows  raw  down  your  throat, 
but  it's  a  sweet  prognostic." 

"Oh,  you  and  your  rain!"  said  Rafferty. 
"It's  a  treacherous  thaw  that  comes  with  a 
drizzle;  it  won't  last.  Everything  will  be 
glazed  to-night." 


THE  STRAW 

"Hark  to  the  pessimist,"  said  Lord  Robert. 
"He's  thinking  of  the  bumps  he'll  get  on  the 
north  side  of  hedges.  Haven't  you  found  out 
yet  that  the  ground  is  as  soft  as  butter  ?  Did 
you  see  Jordan  with  his  pockets  bulging  with 
insurance  papers  ?  Wonderful  thing  the  com- 
mercial spirit !  He  used  to  be  an  arrant 
little  coward,  and  now  it's  fine  to  see  him 
charging  everything  like  a  lion,  fortified  by 
the  knowledge  that  if  he's  killed  he  stands  to 
make  two  or  three  thousand  pounds." 

"Wish  they  hadn't  made  him  an  agent, 
though,"  grumbled  Rafferty.  "It  casts  a  gloom 
over  the  landscape  when  he  bustles  into  us 
at  a  meet,  asking  each  man  if  he's  insured. 
Why  couldn't  the  man  go  into  something 
lively,  like  wines  and  spirits  ?" 

"Is  that  it?"  said  Lord  Robert.  "Why, 
when  he  rode  up  to  me  with  his  ingratiating 
smirk  and  began,  I  thought  he  was  trying  to 
be  funny.  Here,  Jordan,  they  tell  me  you're 
genuine  and  don't  mean  to  be  insulting.  Put 
me  in  for  an  accident." 

The  down  train  whizzed  past,  leaving 
the  humming  metals  clear  for  them  to  pour 
across,  and  they  pressed  through  and  streamed 
over  the  two  fields  that  parted  them  from  the 


THE  STRAW 

few  who  had  crossed  quickly  with  hounds 
and  were  now  listening  at  the  end  of  the 
cover. 

"That's  what  I  like  about  Burbidge's," 
said  Lord  Robert  "You're  all  in  a  bunch. 
You  can  take  stock  of  each  other  and  see 
who's  out  without  missing  anybody  but  the  few 
lost  souls  who  lie  in  wait  afar  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river.  It's  a  regular  island;  a 
moated  kingdom.  But  I'm  grieved  to  hear 
there's  been  a  plague  of  nightingales  in  the 
summer.  I  hope  the  foxes  weren't  disturbed. 
Look  at  the  Babes  worshipping  Mrs.  Lauder. 
What's  this  I  hear  about  their  getting  into  the 
papers?  What  mischief  have  they  been  in?" 

"Only  setting  an  example  to  the  rising 
generation,"  said  Gay. 

"Oh,  that's  why  they  look  so  elated,"  said 
Lord  Robert.  "  Casual  innocents !  They've 
been  getting  in  everybody's  way  this  morning, 
pegging  away  on  their  rag-tag  and  bobtail 
and  grinning  at  the  universe.  How  are  you, 
Gay;  and  where's  old  Tokenhouse  ?  I  miss 
him  and  his  umbrella." 

"He  went  away  for  a  few  days,"  said  Gay. 
He  was  watching  Judy.  All  the  morning  he 
had  tried  to  keep  far  off,  but  surely  now, 
when  the  world  was  penned  into  that  sheltered 


THE  STRAW 

corner,  he  might  exchange  a  word  with  her, 
assure  himself  that  it  was  well  with  her.  .  .  . 

"I  suppose  he  is  coming  back  for  the  Point- 
to- Point?"  said  Lord  Robert.  "He  likes  to 
look  on  at  us,  poor  old  chap.  I  hear  you 
are  riding  Fanny,  and"  -his  voice  dropped 
slightly  - -"  that  you'll  have  Lauder  to  beat. 
He  and  Sophia  seem  to  be  reviving  their  old 
alliance.  At  least,  they  say  she's  made  his 
winning  on  Slipper  the  price  of  her  forgiveness. 
But  they'll  say  anything.  You'll  have  a  tough 
struggle  if  it's  true." 

He  measured  Gay  with  his  eye.  It  was  an 
interesting  speculation  whether  the  feud  be- 
tween Gay  and  Lauder  lay  deep,  or  was  a 
temporary  flare-up.  Its  first  manifestation  had 
become  historic,  but  Gay  was  just  the  sort 
of  imprudent  champion  who  would  let  an 
impulse  run  away  with  him.  There  might  be 
nothing  in  it.  The  scandalous  might  snatch 
at  the  story  and  keep  it  alive,  but  the  larger 
half  was  more  charitable.  Contrary  to  its 
custom  of  despising  the  woman  whose  wealth 
purchased  her  a  tyrant,  it  liked  and  pitied 
Judy. 

"I  dare  say,"  said  Gay,  absently.  He 
moved  up  along  the  fence,  steering  in  and  out 
of  the  shifting  crowd  till  he  was  near  to  her. 

176 


THE  STRAW 

Another  woman  was  talking  to  her,  and  he  fell 
into  conversation  with  the  Babes,  her  devoted 
satellites.  There  was  no  harm  in  that.  And 
the  rest  of  those  about  her  chimed  in;  there 
was  a  regular  babel  in  which  he  bore  his  part, 
hearing  always  her  slow,  soft  voice  amongst 
the  shrill  ones  and  the  deeper  notes  of  the  men, 
waiting  for  her  to  turn  her  head  his  way. 
When  she  did  it  took  him  unawares.  He 
felt  as  if  they  must  all  see  him  start. 

"You  are  riding  that  horse  again,"  he 
said.  He  had  not  meant  to  take  that  danger- 
ous tone  of  guardianship;  he  had  meant 
to  say  something  ordinary  about  the  weather. 

"Yes,"  said  Judy,  and  patted  the  chestnut 
with  a  soothing,  but  not  too  firm  little  hand. 
"I'm  trying  to  cure  myself  of  being  timid. 
But  I'm  like  that  girl  who  used  to  put  one 
foot  every  day  in  the  same  field  with  a  bull  - 
when  his  back  was  to  her  —  and  said  she  was 
cultivating  courage.  He's  my  second  horse, 
and  I  told  the  man  he  needn't  be  too  anxious 
to  keep  him  fresh.  I  hoped  perhaps  he  would 
steal  a  gallop." 

She  spoke  lightheartedly,  but  the  listeners 
could  see  that  it  was  an  effort.  Probably  she 
was  making  a  poor  attempt  to  propitiate 
her  husband. 

N  i77 


THE  STRAW 

"You  can  be  as  foolhardy  as  you  like, 
Mrs.  Lauder,"  said  Lord  Robert,  cutting  in. 
"Accidents  haven't  such  terrors  for  you  as  for 
ancient  bachelors  like  myself.  Here's  Jordan 
pretending  to  insure  all  comers,  and  he  won't 
guarantee  a  poor  devil  against  matrimony, 
the  most  serious  accident  in  the  world.  He 
says  it  doesn't  come  in  under  the  heading  of 
hunting  casualties.  And  I  say  he  doesn't  know 
his  business." 

He  shook  his  head  at  Jordan,  whose  mind  was 
no  longer  on  these  matters,  and  who  was 
edging  into  the  corner  with  the  intention  of 
dashing  through  to  the  ford  before  the  crush, 
expecting  the  fox  to  cross  the  river.  There 
was  a  fox  inside,  and  hounds  were  driving  him 
that  way. 

"There  isn't  a  cover  like  Burbidge's  in  the 
world,"  said  Gay.  "It's  like  London,  a  jump- 
ing-off  place.  You  come  down  with  the  Bel- 
voir  and  you  never  know  where  you'll  end, 
away  in  the  Cottesmore  country,  or  right  in 
the  heart  of  the  Quorn.  It's  a  place  to  dream 
of  all  your  life,  with  its  endless  possibilities, 
and  its  weird  green  spires,  sitting  on  the  edge 
of  the  river." 

"There  he  goes!"  said  the  watchful  Jordan, 
178 


THE  STRAW 

waving  his  arm  and  pointing  to  the  heights. 
At  the  same  instant  another  fox  flashed  out 
towards  the  railway.  But  there  was  no  hesita- 
tion which  was  the  one  to  follow. 

Hounds  splashed  through  the  river  and  were 
flying  up  the  slope  southward,  as  the  crowd 
pushed  along  the  ride  and  struggled  through 
the  ford  at  the  back  of  the  cover,  spreading 
on  the  hill.  The  raw  air  had  become  electric; 
the  empty  fields  a  scene  of  frantic  endeavour. 
For  the  first  few  minutes  all  were  equal;  a 
tumultuous  army;  and  then  the  front  rank 
drew  away;  there  were  gaps  in  it  here  and 
there,  a  visible  thinning  of  the  pursuit. 

The  fox  had  all  but  reached  Burton,  then 
whirled  suddenly  to  the  right,  and  without 
checking  was  away  over  the  Sandy  Lane,  im- 
perceptible now  in  the  distance,  but  easy  to 
follow  with  that  swelling  chorus  to  guide  a 
man  who  could  keep  the  pace. 

The  Babes,  riding  their  hardest,  were  left 
behind  as  if  they  had  been  standing  still. 
Rafferty  himself,  who  did  not  run  to  the  finest 
cattle,  buzzed  past  them  with  his  mouth  open, 
blowing  harder  than  his  horse.  But  they 
valiantly  pelted  on.  There  were  others  in  the 
same  case  as  they. 

"Hear  them!"  gasped  Pinner.  "They're 
179 


THE  STRAW 

keeping  on  over  the  rifle  range.  We'll  never 
get  up  unless  they  lose  him  in  the  bottom. 
Oh,  come  on  !  Come  over  —  — !  Stokes, 
Stokes,  since  you  are  down  you  might  pull  up 
that  stake." 

Stokes,  who  had  gone  first  at  an  obstacle, 
and  taken  it  on  his  head,  got  up  dizzily  and 
did  as  he  was  asked;  and  Pinner  blundered 
over  to  catch  his  horse.  There  was  grief  on 
all  sides,  but  the  survivors  kept  on  like  mad- 
men, following  the  established  custom  of  see- 
ing out  the  run  before  returning  to  pick  up  the 
pieces. 

"Where  have  they  got  to?"  said  Stokes, 
rubbing  his  eyes  and  staring.  Pinner  flung 
up  his  arm. 

"There  they  are!"  he  screamed.  "Still 
running,  by  jingo !  Down  in  the  valley,  just 
half  a  dozen  with  them.  They've  turned 
again.  No,  they  haven't.  He's  twisting  a  bit. 
I  can't  see  behind  that  hillock  - 

"The  sheep  are  running  beyond,"  said 
Stokes. 

"Sheep?"  cried  Pinner.  "It's  not  sheep; 
it's  not  sheep;  it's  hounds  !" 

He  looked  round  him  wildly. 

"Just  see  that!"  he  said.  "Call  that  luck! 
Here  we  are,  miles  behind,  and  they're  head- 
180 


THE  STRAW 

ing  straight  for  the  Tin  House.  You  bet  your 
life  that  fox  has  been  in  our  spinney.  I'll  get 
off  this  quadruped  and  run  for  it." 

Two  or  three  grazing  horses,  disturbed  by 
the  chase,  came  floundering  past,  and  the 
sight  of  them  inspired  him  with  a  wilder  plan. 
He  slid  off  his  exhausted  steed  and  dashed  at 
them  as  they  halted,  breathing  excitement; 
grabbed  one  of  them  by  the  forelock,  and 
thrust  his  bridle  over  its  head,  clambering  on 
its  back  before  its  astonishment  at  being 
caught  and  bitted  could  find  expression.  For- 
tunately it  was  not  a  cart-horse.  He  dug 
his  knees  into  its  fat  sides  and  started  ofF  in 
grand  style,  overtaking  Stokes  as  he  went  down 
into  the  valley.  The  dim  figures  in  the  first 
flight  vanished  over  the  horizon,  the  cry  of 
hounds  sounded  far  and  ghostly,  muffled  by 
distance.  Sometimes  it  seemed  to  be  bearing 
to  the  right,  and  again  changed  and  was  carried 
to  them  southerly. 

"They're  slackening  a  bit,"  said  RafFerty, 
puffing  hard.  He  had  come  to  a  standstill 
in  the  bottom,  and  as  the  Babes  hurled  them- 
selves after  him,  and  Pinner's  glorious  experi- 
ment came  to  an  ignominious  end,  he  had 
time  to  perceive  their  plight. 

"Lost  your  saddle  ?"  he  said,  staring. 
181 


THE  STRAW 

"No.  It's  on  my  horse.  I  left  him  back 
there,"  said  Pinner  vaguely.  He  was  sitting 
on  the  ground.  "You  do  these  things  when 
you  get  excited." 

The  kidnapped  horse  had  given  him  three 
minutes  of  exultation,  and  then  —  scattered 
him.  He  felt  himself  and  laughed.  "Never 
mind  me!"  he  shouted  after  Stokes,  who  was 
plugging  on  by  himself. 

Gay  had  taken  a  wrong  turn  himself,  and 
was  making  up  for  lost  time.  He  flew  past 
Lord  Robert,  toiling  hard.  "He'll  go  to 
ground  in  Cream  Gorse  or  at  the  back  of  my 
place,"  he  shouted  in  consolation.  "Don't 
hurry;  he  knows  he's  safe  in  this  country 
from  a  Belvoir  spade." 

But  the  fox  had  no  such  pusillanimous 
bent.  He  was  making  a  great  curve,  swinging 
right  round  towards  Kirby,  a  sweep  that 
hounds  took  unfaltering,  though  his  turn  was 
sharp  and  flung  out  the  nearest  riders.  They 
lost  ground  in  the  difficult  bit  of  country  into 
which  their  ardour  had  hurried  them,  while 
the  tardy  ones  gathered  on  the  ridge  and  cut 
across  the  lane  in  a  rejoicing  body,  coming  up 
in  time  to  fall  in  close  and  witness  the  end  of 
the  run,  after  missing  out  the  middle. 

Gay  lost  that.     While  hounds  were  running 
182 


THE  STRAW 

into  their  fox  below  the  railway,  swooping 
over  the  line  in  front  of  an  engine  that  for 
an  instant  seemed  dashing  into  them,  but  was 
pulled  up  within  a  yard;  while  their  baying 
awoke  the  echoes  and  proclaimed  that  the 
run  was  over,  he  was  stooping  over  a  figure 
that  lay  dreadfully  still  in  the  trampled  grass; 
and  his  face  was  white. 

She  had  ridden  pluckily  in  a  piteous  effort 
to  satisfy  the  man  who  had  chosen  to  stigma- 
tise her  as  spiritless  and  a  coward.  She  was 
afraid  of  the  chestnut  and  the  chestnut  knew 
it;  and  still  she  had  stuck  to  him.  An  unsafe 
beast,  swift  as  the  wind,  but  as  uncertain. 
He  had  taken  it  into  his  head  to  refuse  this 
fence,  and  then,  as  Judy  put  him  at  it  again, 
had  rushed  at  it  like  a  demon.  She  could  not 
steady  him;  he  crashed  blindly  into  it,  break- 
ing the  timber  like  matchwood,  staggering 
up  and  away.  And  Judy  lay  quite  still. 

The  rest  had  vanished.  Few  of  them  had 
been  as  far  up,  and  as  the  fox  turned  they  had 
all  swept  round.  The  noise  of  galloping  grew 
fainter  and  fainter,  and  died  away.  And  then 
came  the  baying  of  hounds;  the  finish.  .  .  . 

"She's  not  dead;  she's  not  dead,"  repeated 
the  man,  scarcely  believing  himself,  and 
touched  her.  He  had  seen  many  falls,  but 

183 


THE  STRAW 

none  that  had  smitten  him  with  such  un- 
reasonable dread.  But  she  was  breathing; 
her  heart  was  beating;  she  was  only  stunned. 

He  looked  round. 

It  was  one  of  his  fields  they  had  run  over, 
and  yonder  stood  his  house.  Without  the 
wit  to  consider  any  other  course,  he  lifted  her 
up  and  carried  her  over  the  darkening  fields 
towards  it,  his  hunter  following  to  his  stable 
like  a  dog.  The  chestnut  was  away,  flaunt- 
ing loose  after  the  rest,  until  somebody  should 
catch  him. 

Her  weight  was  nothing  .  .  .  but  the  limp 
little  hands,  the  colourless  face,  were  heavy 
on  his  heart. 

Once  on  the  way  she  sighed.  And  he  stum- 
bled and  held  her  closer,  the  one  precious 
thing  in  the  world. 

There  was  nobody  in  the  house  as  he  walked 
into  it  with  his  burden.  His  tread  clang 
hollow  in  the  passage,  his  call  brought  no 
answer.  And  he  did  not  call  again,  but  laid 
her  down  on  the  great  sofa  in  his  sitting-room 
and  dropped  on  his  knees  beside  her,  loosening 
the  tie  folded  round  her  throat  with  fingers 
that  were  unsteady  at  their  office. 

He  didn't  in  the  least  know  what  he  ought 
to  do  for  her;  she  was  so  slight,  so  fragile,  so 
184 


THE  STRAW 

different  to  a  man.  .  .  .  And  when  her  lids 
lifted  slowly  his  heart  jumped  and  stood 
still. 

"Are  you  —  hurt?"  he  stammered.  She 
began  to  shudder. 

"Oh,    the    horse-  she    said    brokenly. 

"I  am  a   coward  ...   I  am  a  coward.  .  .  ." 

Gay  took  her  hands  in  his;  the  little  limp 
hands  that  had  no  strength  in  them,  the  slim, 
slim  wrists. 

"Hush,"  he  said.  "It's  all  over;  you're 
safe." 

Her  half-conscious  terror  forsook  her;  her 
sobbing  breath  quieted. 

"Oh,  I  was  so  frightened,"  she  said,  holding 
on  to  his  hand. 

That  any  man  could  look  on  her  without 
tenderness  -  - !  It  was  unthinkable.  He 
watched  her  pale  lips  parting  at  last  in  a  won- 
dering, wistful  smile. 

"I  am  not  broken,  am  I  ?  What  am  I 
doing  here  ?" 

"I  brought  you  here  in  my  madness,"  said 
Gay  stupidly. 

"Your  house.  ...  I  am  in  your  house  .  .  ." 
she  said  in  a  dreaming  whisper.  It  was  no 
more  strange  to  her,  but  no  more  real  than  at 
that  moment  it  was  to  him. 

185 


THE  STRAW 

How  quickly  the  dusk  was  creeping  into  the 
room;  how  the  firelight  glistened;  how  good 
it  was  to  dream.  .  .  . 

But  the  man's  voice,  troubled,  came  to  her, 
shook  her  dizzy  fancy  that  she  had  wandered 
here  in  a  world  of  comforting  sleep. 

"You're  fainting,"  he  said.  "You're  in 
pain." 

His  cry  was  sharp  with  reality.  It  called 
her  to  herself.  t  With  a  swift  effort  she  stood 
up  and  looked  at  him;  saw  him  far  off  and 
very  close. 

"I  am  all  right,"  she  said;  "only  sick  —  and 
-giddy." 

The  room  danced  round  her  as  she  spoke, 
and  she  thought  she  laughed,  because  some- 
body was  laughing,  and  it  was  not  the  man 
looking  at  her  with  a  grave  face,  whose  shoulder 
was  her  support. 

"Stay  there  a  little  while.  Rest,"  he  said, 
and  her  head  sank  on  the  sofa  cushion;  her 
eyes  shut  on  their  dizziness. 

Gay  stood  looking  down  on  her,  still  un- 
balanced by  the  wild  moment  of  fear  for  her. 
It  had  seemed  so  natural  to  carry  her  in  here; 
he  had  forgotten,  so  possessed  was  he  by  the 
thought  of  her,  that  she  did  not  belong  to  him. 
And  now  the  unutterable  sweetness  of  her 
186 


THE  STRAW 

presence  in  his  house  warned  him  of  its 
danger. 

She  was  only  shaken.  He  must  take  her 
home  before  he  lost  hold  on  himself  and  broke 
into  foolishness.  Who  in  the  vulgar,  gossiping 
outside  world  would  understand  his  raging 
hopelessness,  his  longing  to  keep  her  from 
the  man  who  was  by  the  cruelty  of  circum- 
stances miscalled  her  husband  ?  He  dared 
not  let  himself  think  of  that.  .  .  . 

It  gripped  him,  mastered  him.  He  went 
over  to  her  and  laid  his  hand  on  her  hair. 

She  gave  a  little  shivering  sigh. 

"Judy—  '  he  said.  He  had  never  called 
her  by  her  name  before.  He  was  half  afraid 
of  the  sound  of  it  on  his  lips. 

And  she  looked  up  at  him,  her  eyes  im- 
ploring. 

"I  ...  I  want  to  be  good,"  she  said. 

No.     Nothing  ignoble  should  touch  her.  .  .  . 

He  left  her,  and  went  over  to  the  door. 

"I'll  take  you  home,"  he  said. 


187 


CHAPTER  X 

"  TS  it  dangerous?"  said  Judy. 

A  She  stood  up  in  the  motor,  the  bitter 
wind  blowing  back  her  long  blue  veil,  gazing 
down  the  hillside. 

Behind  towered  the  imitation  battlements 
of  Little  Belvoir,  that  mock  castle  set  high  in 
the  midst  of  its  hanging  wood.  All  down  the 
Broughton  hill  cars  were  whizzing,  manoeu- 
vring clumsily  in  at  the  gate  and  blundering 
into  position  inside  the  field,  where  a  black 
swarm  of  spectators  clustered,  thronging  thick- 
est round  the  flapping  sides  of  two  or  three 
luncheon  tents. 

It  was  the  kind  of  weather  that  belongs  to  a 
steeplechase,  no  sun,  no  enervating  mildness, 
but  a  dull  sky  and  a  threatening  whistle  in  the 
wind,  penetrating  through  the  heaviest  over- 
coat, stinging  the  blood  and  driving  its  reckless- 
ness into  man  and  beast.  It  was  a  drying, 
withering  wind,  the  forerunner  of  a  frost. 

188 


THE  STRAW 

Judy's  great  black  car  was  drawn  up  a  little 
way  from  the  others.  She  caught  the  chang- 
ing drift  of  discussion  as  men  went  stamping 
up  and  down  in  her  neighbourhood,  keeping 
themselves  warm;  and  watched  the  horses 
passing  delicately  through  the  groups  of 
admirers;  heard  a  buzz  of  voices  further  off, 
and  nodded  when  anybody  came  within 
greeting  distance.  She  was  ashamed  of  her 
nervousness,  and  looked  for  reassurance  to 
Tokenhouse  when  he  came  sauntering  over 
the  trampled  grass,  wrapped  in  a  long  coat 
and  wearing  his  woollen  comforter.  He 
seemed  the  one  unexcited  person,  the  one  to 
whom  all  this  was  a  curious,  empty  show. 

"Dangerous?"  he  repeated.  "Not  par- 
ticularly. You've  been  watching  the  farmer's 
race,  with  your  heart  in  your  mouth  at  all  the 
empty  saddles  ?  But  they're  used  to  falling 
off.  They  know  how.  There's  one  old  chap 
I  know  used  to  ride  regularly,  and  when  he 
came  to  anything  he  hadn't  a  liking  for  you 
could  see  him  kick  his  feet  out  of  the  stirrups. 
He  used  to  say  he  guessed  the  old  horse  could 
tackle  it  best  alone." 

He  was  looking  down  and  away  over  the 
improvised  course,  so  terrible  to  the  in- 
experienced, and  his  eye  kindled. 

189 


THE  STRAW 

Starting  three  fields  on  the  other  side  of 
the  turnpike  and  crossing  it  low  down,  it  ran 
past  the  lodge  in  the  bottom,  over  the  Green- 
hills  lane,  rising  on  the  further  hill  until  it 
swept  round  the  clump  of  trees  on  the  sky- 
line and  turned,  coming  back  over  the  lane 
again  to  finish  just  underneath  the  watchers, 
who  from  their  post  on  the  hillside  could 
track  the  flags  all  the  way.  There  had  been 
no  tinkering  at  the  fences  to  speak  of;  they 
were  rough  and  ragged;  and  all  of  the  way 
was  grass. 

"Ah,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "it's  like  old 
times.  .  .  ." 

Judy  leaned  to  him  anxiously. 

"I  heard  them  say,"  she  confided,  "that 
the  ditch  was  a  deathtrap." 

"Oh,"  said  Tokenhouse,  smiling  at  her 
hushed  voice,  "and  it  scared  you?  Non- 
sense. There  are  only  two  ugly  places  and 
that's  one  of  them,  but  you  mustn't  magnify 
its  importance.  Why,  it  makes  a  man  extra 
careful.  You  never  heard  of  a  bad  fall  at  a 
really  difficult  leap,  either  in  a  race  or  hunt- 
ing. Walk  down  with  me  to  that  ditch  and 
see  for  yourself  what  a  lot  of  trouble  they 
take  to  get  over." 

But  Judy  drew  back. 
190 


THE  STRAW 

"No,"  she  said.  "I  would  rather  not.  I 
can  see  it  all  from  here." 

Tokenhouse  looked  at  her  whimsically. 

"Won't  you  come?"  he  said.  "I'll  prom- 
ise you  nobody  shall  be  hurt.  At  least,  not 
desperately.  It  isn't  a  donkey  race.  .  .  ." 

But  as  she  would  not  he  went  off  by  himself, 
looking  back  once  or  twice  and  waving  his 
stick  at  her;  and  his  place  at  her  side  was 
taken  by  the  Babes,  who  came  racing  up,  re- 
turning to  their  allegiance  after  the  distracting 
thrills  of  the  farmer's  race,  happy  and  lo- 
quacious. 

"Wish  we  had  gone  in  for  it,"  said  Pinner. 
"  Did  you  see  'em  go  down  like  nine-pins  ? 
Any  one  of  our  gees  could  have  worn  them 
down.  I  did  want  to  have  a  try,  but  Stokes 
was  afraid  it  would  get  into  the  papers. 
We've  an  awful  reputation  for  industry  to  keep 
up,  and  if  they  heard  of  us  larking  at  steeple- 
chases it  would  be  fatal.  The  thing-um-bob 
says  it's  going  to  report  our  progress  from 
time  to  time  to  its  readers." 

"It's  nervous  work  farming  with  the  Press 
on  your  mind,"  said  Stokes.  His  freckled 
face  took  on  an  owlish  look  of  solemnity  befitting 
the  thought,  but  under  it  lurked  a  grin.  They 
were  hanging  on  to  the  car,  one  on  each  side, 

191 


THE  STRAW 

as  if  they  expected  it  to  plunge  forward  down 
the  hill. 

"They  wired  last  week  for  our  bill  of  fare," 
said  Pinner,  "but  we're  getting  into  the  game; 
we  were  quite  composed.  It's  a  solemn 
thought  that  everybody  all  over  England 
knows  that  we  have  bacon  and  eggs  for  break- 
fast, and  for  dinner  mostly  a  frugal  chop 
(that's  one  of  their  adjectives,  we  only  sup- 
plied the  mutton).  They  printed  it  next 
door  to  the  menu  of  a  public  banquet  and 
pointed  a  tremendous  moral." 

"Some  day  they'll  demand  our  ledgers," 
said  Stokes.  "That's  the  worst  of  it.  A 
horrid,  bald  statement  of  profit  and  loss." 

"We'd  get  along  all  right,"  said  Pinner 
hopefully,  "if  we  didn't  get  stuck  with  such 
queer  creatures.  I'd  no  idea  that  animals 
varied  so.  We've  had  an  hysterical  cow  on 
the  premises  since  Tuesday,  and  Johnson  com- 
plains he  can't  get  a  wink  of  sleep." 

"We  were  going  to  ask  if  she  kept  you 
awake?"  said  Stokes. 

They  both  looked  solicitously  at  Judy,  re- 
marking her  paleness. 

She  wished  she  had  gone  down  with  Token- 
house  to  stand  close  to  that  jump  that  was  so 
dangerous.  Surely  she  was  unwarrantably 
192 


THE  STRAW 

nervous.  .  .  .  And  she  had  nothing  to  excuse 
her  but  a  premonition,  a  silly  terror  of  some 
intangible,  awful  thing. 

Nobody  else  was  afraid.  Other  women 
passed,  chattering;  gathered  on  the  hillock 
below  her  clapping  their  hands  and  applauding 
the  men  they  knew.  They  never  turned  away 
their  eyes  when  a  horse  went  down.  .  .  . 

"It's  the  red-coat  race  they  are  at  next," 
said  Stokes.  "Your  race  I  mean,  you  know, 
the  one  Major  Lauder  rides  in.  It's  between 
him  and  Gay.  None  of  the  others  have  got 
a  chance.  That's  what  everybody  says." 

"Here  they  come,"  said  Pinner. 

A  ripple  passed  along  the  crowd,  and  through 
them  came  six  or  seven  riders  in  their  hunting 
clothes,  bright  in  the  sombre  landscape,  on 
their  way  to  the  starting-post.  Burkinshaw 
was  leading,  jolly  and  self-satisfied,  turning  a 
deaf  ear  to  Maria's  injunctions,  mounted  on  a 
respectable  hunter,  who  could  be  trusted  not 
to  put  a  foot  wrong,  but  would  probably  take 
her  time;  next  to  him  came  a  pale  young  man 
on  a  chestnut  that  was  palpably  despising 
him;  and  then  Lauder,  passing  with  neither 
look  nor  word  for  his  wife,  his  face  heavily 
determined,  his  jaw  set,  riding  the  raking  bay 
that  he  had  sworn  to  bring  home  first.  After 
o  i93 


THE  STRAW 

him  Gay  went  down  on  his  brown  mare 
Fanny,  who  flirted  past  with  a  deceiving 
pretence  of  slightness,  more  blood  than  bone. 
Then  came  the  ruck,  the  others  that  did  not 
count  to  Judy,  who  leaned  forward,  watching 
the  small  procession  wind  its  way  down  the 
hill,  cross  into  the  fields  beyond,  and  grow 
less  and  less  in  the  distance. 

Tokenhouse  had  posted  himself  at  the  brook. 
He  found  Lord  Robert  and  one  or  two  more 
inspecting  it,  and  a  veterinary  standing  under 
the  hedge  close  by  shaking  his  head. 

It  was  a  bad  place.  At  one  end  it  was  an 
ordinary  ditch,  at  the  other  it  widened  into  a 
pond;  and  the  hedge  was  on  the  landing  side. 

Hurdles  had  been  put  up  on  the  take-off  side, 
and  the  men  riding  down  to  the  barrier 
matted  with  gorse  and  thorns  could  not  see 
what  they  were  jumping  into,  could  not  judge 
the  immense  leap  they  might  have  to  clear. 

"What  do  you  think  of  this?"  said  Lord 
Robert.  "Huskinson  calls  it  murder.  It's 
asking  a  horse  to  rise  to  a  hurdle  and  giving 
him  what's  impossible  to  clear  —  and  then 
receiving  him  on  a  row  of  pointed  stakes. 
Look  at  that  damned  hedge !  He's  had 
two  horses  to  doctor  and  one  to  shoot;  and 

194 


THE  STRAW 

I've  pulled  out  a  few  of  these  infernal  sticks 
myself.  I  don't  care  what  official  idiots 
left  them  in." 

"Yes;  it's  nasty,"  said  Tokenhouse. 

"Nasty?  Rather!"  exclaimed  Lord  Rob- 
ert. "The  men  on  the  right  fly  over  the  nar- 
row bit;  the  rest  take  a  pond  and  fall  back 
into  the  water,  or  stake  their  horses  if  the 
poor  brutes  get  as  far  as  the  bank." 

"You  take  your  chance,"  said  Tokenhouse, 
walking  round  to  occupy  a  position  in  the  lee 
of  the  hedge  beside  the  others. 

"Oh,  I  dare  say  it's  nothing  to  a  man 
with  your  dare-devil  recollections,"  said  Lord 
Robert.  "That  ugly  horse  of  Sophia's  wants 
handling.  I  am  backing  Fanny,  though  the 
weight's  a  good  deal  for  her  to  carry  —  thirteen 
stone.  I  should  think  you  and  Gay  rode 
about  the  same." 

"Within  a  pound  or  two,"  said  Tokenhouse 
absently.  The  wind  swirled  round  and  caught 
them,  blowing  off  Lord  Robert's  hat.  He 
jammed  it  down  over  his  nose  and  stood  in 
closer. 

"Brings  the  tears  into  your  eyes,"  he 
grumbled.  "How  long  are  they  going  to 
keep  us  shivering  on  the  watch  ?  I've  been 
telling  Gay  to  keep  a  sharp  eye  on  Lauder. 


THE  STRAW 

Shouldn't  be  surprised  at  anything.  You'd 
think  his  winning  this  trumpery  race  was  a 
matter  of  life  and  death.  I  never  saw  a 
man  so  keen.  Of  course,  it's  to  curry  favour 
with  the  implacable  Sophia." 

"He  was  always  a  bad  loser,"  said  Token- 
house. 

Lord   Robert  looked   at  him  rather  closely. 

"Doesn't  all  this  carry  you  back  to  old 
times?"  he  said.  "Don't  you  want  to  be  up 
and  doing  ?  Ah,  wait  till  you  feel  the  wind  of 
them  passing-  -!" 

"They  are  off,"  said  the  vet. 

The  horses  came  over  the  first  fence  all  in  a 
line  like  a  flight  of  birds.  At  the  second  jump 
it  was  a  broken  line,  and  the  thudding  hoofs 
sounded  louder.  Down  the  middle  of  the  field 
they  came,  straight  for  the  formidable  ditch. 
They  were  all  bearing  down,  hanging  on  the 
right,  but  there  was  not  room,  and  they  spread. 

Splash !  The  man  on  the  left  was  in  and  his 
neighbour,  seeing  a  horrid  gulf  yawning  under 
him,  swung  round  in  the  air,  leaping  sideways, 
cleared  hurdles  and  water  and  hedge  in  a 
tremendous  bound,  cannoning  against  another 
man  landing  on  his  right  with  an  impact 
that  knocked  him  over. 

196 


THE  STRAW 

"Look  out!'*  yelled  Lord  Robert  as  the 
Slipper,  like  a  great  cat,  leapt  over,  just  missing 
the  fallen  man.  "Damn  it  all,  did  you  see 
Lauder's  face  ?  He  knows  it's  Gay  that's 
down." 

Fanny  had  recovered  herself  before  her 
rider;  she  was  unhurt.  She  staggered  up, 
shook  herself,  and  was  starting  off  alone,  as 
Tokenhouse  caught  her  bridle. 

"Good  old  girl,"  he  said.  "Good  old 
girl.  .  .  ." 

His  voice  was  hoarse  and  funny.  An 
overmastering  impulse  had  wiped  out  in  that 
one  moment  the  last  two  years.  With  neither 
whip  nor  spur  he  threw  himself  into  the 
saddle.  It  had  come  back;  it  had  all  come 
back.  .  .  . 

An  extraordinary  exultation  filled  his  soul, 
blotting  out  its  captivity,  possessing  him  with  a 
sense  of  power  restored.  The  wind  was  sharp 
and  salt  in  his  mouth;  its  whistle  shrilled  past 
him  like  the  note  of  his  own  triumph.  He 
felt  as  if  he  had  come  back  to  life. 

He  had  left  two  horses  struggling  in  the 
unjumpable  end  of  the  ditch.  There  were 
four  in  front,  bundling  over  the  low  hedge, 
a  little  demoralised  by  what  they  had  left 
behind.  The  brown  mare  went  smooth  as 

197 


THE  STRAW 

silk,  leaning  on  a  hand  that  had  not  lost  its 
cunning,  feeling  the  electric  pressure  of  his 
knees.  Not  for  nothing  had  Tokenhouse 
been  known  as  the  finest  rider  of  his  day. 

Last,  but  gaining  at  every  stride,  she  flicked 
in  and  out  of  the  road  and  went  swooping  on 
over  the  straight  meadows  in  the  bottom. 
Away  up  on  the  hillside  rose  a  murmur,  gath- 
ering into  a  marvelling  shout  as  conjecture 
spread.  Tokenhouse  smiled  to  himself  at  that 
and  at  the  amazed  gasp  of  the  man  he  was 
overhauling.  Since  he  had  begun  he  would 
stick  to  it;  he  would  win. 

The  fields  slid  past;  the  fences  rose  up  and 
sank.  They  were  over  the  Greenhill  lane, 
breasting  the  tiring  rise.  Another  horse  was 
down,  one  dropped  back;  there  were  only 
three  of  them  in  it  as  they  gained  the  brow  of 
the  hill  and  swung  round  wide  of  the  haystack 
and  the  bunch  of  trees.  The  chestnut  was 
beat;  he  had  gone  too  wildly,  and  now  his 
rider  called  on  him  in  vain.  Sophia  Eland's 
great  bay  was  leading,  going  his  hardest. 
Lauder  had  sent  him  along  all  the  way.  And 
the  mare  was  sliding  up  to  him.  It  was  a 
battle  between  the  two. 

Memories  seized  hold  of  Tokenhouse,  almost 
blurring  the  swift  realities  of  the  present. 
198 


THE  STRAW 

The  last  race  he  had  ridden  came  back  to  him 
with  a  clearness  he  had  not  felt  since  its  catas- 
trophe dropped  a  curtain  between  him  and 
what  had  been  himself.  Yesterday  and  to-day 
clashed  together  in  his  mind.  He  looked  once, 
strangely,  at  the  other  man,  as  side  by  side 
they  galloped  on.  There  was  in  Lauder's  face 
a  fury,  the  amazement  of  a  man  who  saw  him- 
self thwarted  by  the  works  of  the  devil. 

And  so  they  came  to  the  third  fence  from 
the  finish,  a  bad  one  with  a  drop  into  boggy 
ground.  The  bay  was  still  going  tremendously, 
but  he  could  not  keep  it  up  much  longer,  and 
he  had  nothing  in  hand  to  get  home  with.  If 
Fanny  got  over  this  jump  first  the  race  was  hers. 
And  she  would.  .  .  . 

What  was  the  matter  with  Lauder  ?  He  was 
hanging  back  in  the  last  few  strides.  What 
move  was  in  his  head  ? 

A  curious  knowledge  of  what  was  coming 
gripped  Tokenhouse.  He  knew.  .  .  . 

Up  went  the  mare,  and  the  bay  shot  in  on 
her  inside,  rising  with  her;  but  before  he  could 
strike  her  Tokenhouse  pulled  her  back,  just 
missing  Lauder's  knee.  The  desperate  trick 
had  failed. 

"  By  God ! "  he  cried  out,  in  his  voice 
199 


THE  STRAW 

of  two  years  ago.  "You  don't  do  that 
twice ! " 

And  then  the  bay  landed  heavily,  slithering 
in  the  bog,  and  the  mare  was  gallantly  making 
her  rush  home.  Tokenhouse  was  flying  on  over 
the  last  two  fences  with  the  race  in  his  hands. 

He  rode  in  to  frantic  shouting,  a  strange 
spectacle,  his  long  coat  flapping,  his  trousers 
rucked  to  his  knees.  All  the  world  was  running 
to  meet  him,  welcoming,  betwixt  laughter  and 
emotion,  his  astonishing  resurrection. 

"And  you  wouldn't  do  it  for  me,"  said  Sophia 
Bland. 

Tokenhouse  dropped  to  the  ground  and 
leaned  against  the  mare's  heaving  side,  hearing 
like  a  man  in  his  sleep  the  chorus  of  acclamation. 
A  sweat  broke  out  on  his  forehead,  his  limbs 
trembled  under  him;  he  was  shaken  by  a 
mental  sickness  of  reaction. 

"I  don't  know  who  I  did  it  for,"  he  said. 
"Upon  my  soul,  Sophia,  I  don't  know  how  I 
could." 

With  a  dazed  expression  he  submitted  to  the 
popular  ovation,  shut  in  on  all  sides  by  a  hilari- 
ous crowd  of  familiar  faces,  by  men  wringing  his 
hand  and  hiding  the  warmth  of  their  feelings 
under  universal  chaff  at  his  unorthodox  get-up. 

300 


"Look  at  him,"  said  Lord  Robert,  who  had 
whisked  up  on  the  vet's  pony  to  see  the  finish, 
and  whose  eyes  were  still  starting  out  of  his 
head.  "Never  even  took  off  his  old  com- 
forter. Just  hopped  up  and  sailed  away. 
It  was  more  than  sporting;  it  was  positively 
unearthly." 

"He'll  want  it,"  said  another  man.  "He'll 
want  every  ounce  of  weight  if  he  is  to  turn  the 
scale.  And  he  didn't  even  stop  for  Gay's 
whip- 

"No,  he  didn't  stop  for  any  mortal  thing," 
said  Lord  Robert,  striking  his  hands  together. 
"Poor  old  Burkinshaw  gave  up  when  he  be- 
held him.  He  declares  the  sight  of  him  forging 
up  like  a  violent  ghost  shook  him  out  of  his 
saddle.  Says  he  just  tumbled  off  and  lay 
staring  after  him  open-mouthed." 

"We  didn't  believe  our  eyes  up  here,"  said 
another;  " but  when  we  knew  him  —  you  never 
heard  such  an  uproar!" 

"The  doctor  says  Gay  has  broken  a  rib  or 
two  and  hurt  his  shoulder,"  said  Lord  Robert; 
"but  I  believe  he's  just  weak  with  laughing." 

There  were  no  plaudits  to  spare  for  the 
second  horse,  no  sympathy  with  his  unpopular 
rider.  Sophia  Bland,  making  one  of  the  pro- 
cession escorting  Tokenhouse  to  the  weigh- 

M 


THE  STRAW 

ing  tent,  seemed  to  have  forgotten  her  own  ill- 
fortune.  But  as  Lauder  pushed  his  way  up  tc 
her  side  her  eyes  flickered  strangely,  her  mouth 
grew  hard. 

"You  break  all  your  promises,  Bill,"  she  said. 

That  was  her  attitude.  It  struck  him  that 
she  was  exulting  in  his  defeat,  although  it  was 
her  horse  that  had  lost  —  purely  because  it 
gave  her  an  opportunity  to  taunt  him.  His 
bid  for  forgiveness  had  failed  ignominiously; 
he  had  not  succeeded  in  carrying  out  his  boast. 
And  Sophia  was  not  inclined  to  spare  him. 
She  had  played  with  him,  let  him  live  awhile 
in  false  hopes  of  a  truce  between  them. 
Had  she  wanted  to  humiliate  him  again  r 
There  was  no  plumbing  the  bitterness  of  a 
woman. 

"I'll  buy  that  horse  of  you,"  he  said  thickly. 
"I'll  buy  him  at  any  price." 

"With  your  wife's  money?"  she  asked. 
"What  do  you  want  him  for?" 

Her  scornful  glance  crossed  his  look,  black 
as  thunder. 

"To  shoot  him,"  said  Lauder  between  his 
teeth. 

He  pushed  on,  savage  with  the  world,  thirst- 
ing for  a  quarrel,  and  burst  in  that  blind  rage 
into  the  circle  pressing  on  the  winner. 

202 


THE  STRAW 

"Did  you  accuse  me  of  riding  you  down?" 
he  said. 

The  men  standing  round  Tokenhouse  stared 
at  him;  their  looks  were  all  unfriendly.  Here 
was  a  man  who  could  not  take  defeat  like  a 
gentleman,  who  had  not  the  decency  to  mask 
his  fury  of  disappointment. 

"No,"  said  Tokenhouse.  "I  told  you  you 
should  not  do  it  twice." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?"  said  Lauder. 
The  hostility  round  him  made  no  difference  to 
him.  His  manner  was  truculent;  he  was  not 
at  all  master  of  himself. 

"Only,"  said  Tokenhouse,  "that  the  ride  has 
refreshed  my  memory,  which  has  been  poor. 
I  know  now  to  whose  tactics  I  owe  a  misfortune 
that  put  me  out  of  the  running  two  years  ago." 

His  words  fell  on  a  silence,  upset  as  he  con- 
cluded by  the  bystanders'  hasty  interposition 
between  him  and  the  other  man.  His  face  was 
impassive,  his  tone  unexcited  as  he  spoke  to 
the  adversary  choking  with  incoherent  rage. 

"We'll  have  no  rows  here,"  said  Lord  Rob- 
ert. "That'll  do,  Lauder.  Go  and  consult 
your  solicitor  if  you  want  to  fight.  .  .  .  The 
man  is  beside  himself.  ...  I  say,  Token- 
house,  was  that  gospel  ?" 

"My  opinion,"  said  Tokenhouse  quietly. 
203 


THE  STRAW 

"Well,  he  brought  it  on  himself,"  said  Lord 
Robert.  "Where's  he  gone  ?  Strikes  me  you'll 
want  a  bodyguard." 

But  it  was  unaccompanied  that  the  hero  of 
the  last  race  found  his  way  at  length  through 
the  confusion  of  people  getting  ready  for  de- 
parture, to  the  solitary  figure  in  the  great  black 
motor.  The  Babes  had  left  her,  having  hur- 
ried off  at  the  first  intimation  to  the  scene  of 
Gay's  disaster,  promising  to  come  back  with 
news,  but  entirely  forgetting  in  their  pre- 
occupation. Lauder  had  not  been  near  her. 
And  her  face  was  turned  away  from  the  multi- 
tude. She  was  gazing  down  the  hillside  with 
a  strained  intentness  that  missed  all  that  went 
on  around  her.  Almost  it  seemed  as  if  she 
must  have  been  unconscious  of  his  return  in 
triumph.  The  blue  veil  fluttered  round  her 
head,  and  mechanically  she  lifted  her  hand 
from  time  to  time,  brushing  it  away.  As 
Tokenhouse  addressed  her  she  turned  to  him 
with  a  start,  and  he  saw  that  her  eyes  were 
brimming  and  wild  with  tears. 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  child?"  he  said. 

She  stretched  out  her  hands  to  him;  he  felt 
them  quiver,  saw  her  lip  quivering  in  a  sob. 

"Is  he  badly  hurt?"  she  said. 
204 


THE  STRAW 

"Who,  Gay?"  said  Tokenhouse.  "No,  not 
badly." 

With  an  odd  shock  he  realised  that  agonised 
watch  that  had  made  her  careless  of  his  ex- 
ploit. To  her  he  was  still  the  confidential 
nonentity,  the  whimsical  friend  and  adviser  who 
had  nothing  to  do  in  life.  Well,  it  was  better  so. 

"I  was  afraid,"  she  said  piteously.  "I 
thought  he  must  be  dying." 

"Hush,"  he  said.  "Don't  cry.  Don't  be- 
tray yourself.  They  are  bringing  him  now; 
you'll  see  him.  .  .  ." 

Judy  clung  to  his  hand,  rinding  strength  in 
its  painful  grasp. 

"Where  were  you  all  this  time?"  she  said. 
"I  thought  you  would  never  come  back." 

He  could  not  smile  at  her  ignorance  of  what 
he  had  got  through  in  the  twenty  minutes  since 
he  waved  his  hand  to  her  on  the  hill. 

All  that  had  been  a  blank  to  her;  she  had 
been  deaf  to  the  crowd's  enthusiasm,  her  eyes 
unseeing,  her  spirit  with  the  man  who  had 
fallen.  His  own  thoughts  were  curious. 

"That's  right,"  he  said,  comforting  her. 
"Be  a  brave  girl  and  don't  give  way.  You 
mustn't  imagine  things  are  as  bad  as  that. 
Why,  a  fall  is  nothing ! " 

"Are  you  sure?"  she  said,  still  troubled, 
205 


THE  STRAW 

but  trusting,  all  her  secret  printed  in  that  gaze 
of  tragic  frankness. 

"Sure,"  said  Tokenhouse. 

People  were  drifting  that  way,  packing  them- 
selves into  the  cars,  getting  on  to  their  horses. 
Lord    Robert    strolled    up,    hunting    for    his 
party. 

"Can't  find  my  burdens,"  he  said.  "I'm 
giving  a  lift  to  half  the  population  and  I  can't 
collect  them.  The  stout  ones  have  to  be  started 
on;  they've  to  walk  up  the  Broughton  hill,  or 
the  car  will  slide  down  backwards  and  land 
us  at  the  bottom.  Look  at  these  unfortu- 
nates grinding  and  churning  the  gateway  into 
a  quagmire.  We  shall  be  blocked  in  this  field 
till  the  Day  of  Judgment.  Are  you  coming  on 
with  me,  Tokenhouse,  or  will  you  go  home  with 
Gay  ?  There  he  is,  pale  and  interesting,  in  the 
Brocktons'  car.  We'll  give  him  a  cheer,  Mrs. 
Lauder,  though  he  only  won  by  favour  of  his 
lodger." 

Somebody  had  lent  his  motor  to  bring  Gay, 
and  it  came  up  slowly,  with  the  Babes  hanging 
on  to  it,  half  in,  half  out,  and  halted  below  the 
gate,  waiting  to  pass. 

"He  doesn't  look  much  the  worse,"  said 
Lord  Robert.  "Broken  three  ribs,  they  tell 
206 


THE  STRAW 

me,  and  bruised  his  shoulder.  You'll  be  able 
to  nurse  him,  Tokenhouse;  no  dangerous  im- 
portations. If  you'll  believe  me,  Mrs.  Lauder, 
the  risk  of  complications  that  a  man  runs 
is  awful.  I'm  susceptible  myself;  I  know  how 
it  is  when  you're  laid  on  the  flat  of  your  back. 
I  make  a  point  of  calling  out  before  I  lose 
consciousness,  'Mind  you  pick  out  a  plain  one.' 
Not  the  doctor,  of  course,  the  nurse;  though 
it's  not  an  infallible  precaution.  Here's  your 
Anarchist  wandering  back  to  his  engine.  Let's 
walk  on  to  the  gate  while  he  turns  this  thing 
and  explodes  it  over  these  lumpy  fur- 
rows." 

Judy  looked  wistfully  at  Tokenhouse. 

"Yes,  come  on  as  far  as  the  gate,"  he  said, 
and  she  descended.  Lord  Robert  fell  into  step 
on  her  other  side,  but  she  was  not  listening  to 
his  prattle. 

"I  know  a  sad  case,"  he  said.  "A  diplo- 
matist too,  not  one  of  us  simple  sportsmen. 
He  was  dangerously  ill,  and  his  sister,  who 
presided  over  him  generally  and  knew  his 
weaknesses,  went  down  on  her  knees  to  the 
specialist  who  was  operating  and  said  her 
brother  must  have  male  nurses.  But  the  great 
man  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  He  said  the  case 
was  too  delicate,  that  the  patient  would  die 

207 


THE  STRAW 

if  he  was  left  to  the  rough  tending  of  a  man. 
However,  he  said  there  was  positively  no 
cause  for  anxiety,  for  he  had  a  nurse  on  his 
staff  who  was  over  forty  and  the  plainest 
woman  he  had  ever  seen.  'Show  her  to  me,' 
said  the  suspicious  sister;  and  when  he  had 
done  so  she  fell  on  his  neck  and  said,  'She  will 
do.'  In  six  months  that  poor  diplomatist  had 
married  her  and  ruined  his  career.  Ah,  its 
not  surprising  we  helpless  men  have  a  terror  of 
influenza." 

He  talked  on  with  the  dry  irrelevance  it 
pleased  him  to  affect,  as  the  three  of  them 
walked  over  to  the  gate.  Perhaps  if  he  had 
been  interrogated  he  would  have  put  down  his 
motive  in  sticking  to  them  as  curiosity  —  not 
by  any  means  admitting  a  desire  to  stand  by 
Tokenhouse  who,  still  posing  as  a  disembodied 
phantom,  saw  no  reason  to  drop  his  post  as  an 
ally  of  Mrs.  Lauder  on  the  top  of  that  en- 
counter with  the  man  himself.  These  phi- 
losophers were  imprudent.  And  if  Lauder  in 
his  mad  humour  should  rush  upon  him,  the 
situation  was  not  one  to  be  missed.  He 
chuckled,  keeping  a  shrewd  look-out,  but  not 
allowing  his  boasted  curiosity  to  scan  too 
nearly  the  little  pale  face  under  the  motoring 
bonnet,  to  ask  what  was  hurrying  her  faltering 
208 


THE  STRAW 

but  almost  running  step.  No  one  who  knew 
Lord  Robert  would  have  believed  it  of  him, 
but  he  had  it  in  him  to  be  discreet. 

As  Judy,  between  her  two  supporters,  reached 
the  gateway,  it  was  impassable.  A  heavy  car 
had  stuck  midway,  and  its  human  freight  had 
tumbled  out  and  were  tugging  and  pushing, 
enlisting  help,  ignoring  the  public  laughter  and 
the  impatience  of  those  behind. 

"She'll  never  loose  'ee,  t'Broughton  clay," 
shouted  a  farmer,  riding  five  abreast  in  his 
market  cart,  bulging  out  on  the  splashboard; 
and  a  gust  of  merriment  ran  along  the  string 
of  waiting  vehicles.  Tokenhouse  looked  over 
the  hedge. 

"We  are  prisoners,"  he  called  out  to  Gay. 
"How  are  you  ?" 

And  Judy  saw  him,  but  was  not  seen. 

He  was  propped  up  in  the  car,  outwardly 
undamaged  save  for  a  scratched  face;  and 
he  was  answering  all  inquiries  with  a  grin 
that  turned  sympathy  into  appreciation  of 
his  pluck.  As  Tokenhouse  looked  over  into 
the  road  he  moved  suddenly,  winced,  and  tried 
to  laugh  as  a  man  should  at  that  reminder. 

"Come  over  and  tell  me  all  about  the  race," 
he  said.  "I  am  pinned  here,  you  see.  Oh, 
I  heard  the  shouting;  it  would  have  reached 
p  209 


THE  STRAW 

me  if  I  had  been  deaf  and  dead  —  and  I've 
heard  a  dozen  versions.  I  want  yours,  you 
old  impostor.  Don't  look  so  serious;  I  haven't 
been  kicked  to  pieces.  And  if  I  had  - 
he  broke  off  with  the  laugh  that  hurt,  but  was 
the  only  way  he  could  show  emotion  —  "  it's 
worth  it." 

The  Babes,  dangling  at  the  side  of  the  car, 
had  dropped  to  the  ground,  looking,  awe- 
struck, at  Tokenhouse.  Judy,  shielded  from 
sight  by  his  tall,  spare  figure,  comforted  by 
one  glimpse,  felt  the  tears  she  had  checked 
blinding  her  again.  Why  did  he  say  it  was 
worth  it  ?  Worth  it.  ...  He  did  not  know 
what  those  awful  minutes  had  been  like,  how 
madly  her  heart  was  beating  at  his  voice. 
And  because  she  could  not  bear  to  let  him  dis- 
cover, she  turned  and  stumbled  away  alone 
across  the  trampled  grass. 

The  men  did  not  follow  her.  Either  they 
guessed,  or  were  ignorantly  merciful,  and 
forbore.  But  somebody  intercepted  her,  some 
acquaintance  asking  if  she  were  seeking  for  her 
husband  —  and  then  Burkinshaw  crossed  her 
path,  hailing  her  in  his  good-natured  bass. 

"  My  wife's  looking  for  you,  Judy."  Maria's 
searching  was  always  done  by  proxy.  "She 
says  you  are  to  come  back  with  us  and  stay 

2IO 


THE  STRAW 

the  night.  Don't  wait  for  Lauder;  nobody 
knows  where  he's  gone." 

"Thanks  awfully.  I  —  I  can't,"  said  Judy. 
She  was  afraid  of  herself,  and  wanted  to  be 
alone  with  the  strange  woman  she  had  be- 
come. She  could  not  face  spying  kindness. 

A  little  further  another  person  accosted  her, 
diffident  before  her  bewildered  look  that  scarcely 
seemed  to  see  him. 

"Mrs.  Burkinshaw  is  waiting  for  you. 
She  asked  me  to  find  you  and  bring  you  to 
her." 

"I  am  going  home,"  said  Judy,  so  wildly 
that  he  fell  back. 

Her  own  car  suddenly  upreared  itself,  lum- 
bering over  the  rise  towards  her,  and  she 
stopped  in  her  wandering  haste.  A  man 
talking  to  the  chauffeur  came  up,  repeating 
the  absurd  formula  that  seemed  to  haunt  her 
steps.  She  brushed  him  aside. 

Maria  had  been  unlucky  in  her  emissaries, 
who  all  returned  to  her  unsuccessful.  Her 
orders  had  been  laconic.  "Fetch  her  to  me," 
issued  with  no  misgiving  that  Judy's  gentleness 
would  dare  to  disregard  her  mandate.  Each 
man  as  he  came  back,  apologetic,  increased 
her  wrath. 

"Dear  me,"   she   said.     "You   are   helpless, 

211 


THE  STRAW 

all  of  you.  Any  one  would  think  I'd  sent 
you  to  capture  a  little  dragon.  How  am  I 
to  leave  the  girl  ?  Dicky  says  Lauder  is 
half  demented.  She  can't  go  back  with  him. 
.  .  .  She  is  my  cousin.  .  .  .  Rather  late  in 
the  day  to  awake  to  my  duties  ?  Not  at  all, 
Augusta.  She  was  quite  safe  in  the  crowd  of 
us;  he  wasn't  at  all  likely  to  go  near  her. 
Besides,  I  forgot  her  till  Tokenhouse  reminded 
me.  I  said  I'd  take  her  away  with  us.  Really, 
I  am  anxious  about  her.  Where  is  that  man  ?" 

"Lauder  has  left,"  said  one  of  her  am- 
bassadors. "Someone  saw  him  riding  through 
the  gate." 

Maria's  conscience,  weighted  as  it  was  by  a 
heavy  fur  coat  and  her  own  portliness,  became 
less  active.  And  they  were  blocking  the  way. 

"If  you  can't  persuade  her,"  she  said  re- 
signed, "I  suppose  we  had  better  start." 

It  only  pricked  her  slightly  as  their  heavier 
progress  up  the  interminable  hill  was  rivalled 
and  passed  by  the  large  black  uncovered  car 
carrying  one  solitary]  passenger;  and  her 
gesticulation  was  lost  on  the  dimming  mys- 
teries of  a  blue  gauze  veil.  Maria  did  not 
have  presentiments.  She  had  done  her  part 
and  was  satisfied. 


212 


CHAPTER  XI 

TOKENHOUSE  banked  up  his  fire.  He 
was  stiff  and  tired  but  disinclined 
for  sleep.  It  was  freezing  without;  there 
was  no  wind  in  the  chimney,  no  rattling  of 
shutters,  and  the  house  was  quiet.  The  Crows 
had  had  their  nightly  procession  of  locking 
up,  a  rite  that  Mrs.  Crow  never  attempted  to 
perform  alone,  lacking  heart.  When  Crow 
was  absent  she  left  it  to  the  casual  prudence 
of  the  master  or  his  lodger,  excusing  herself 
with  the  illogical  plea  that  her  fear  of  thieves 
was  too  lively.  Clattering  the  bars  into  place 
in  the  eerie  silence  was  like  an  invocation; 
they  might  spring  in  upon  her.  .  .  .  All 
she  did  was  to  set  a  bucket  of  water  outside 
her  bedroom  door.  Whether  in  case  of  fire 
or  in  the  hope  of  tripping  the  enemy  she 
never  explained.  Crow  himself,  the  prodigal, 
padding  upstairs  one  night  in  his  stocking 
soles,  was  the  only  mortal  who  had  ever 
stumbled  over  it,  a  half-drowned  witness 

213 


THE  STRAW 

to  its  efficacy.  He  assuredly  turned  and 
fled. 

There  was  no  shrill  singing  in  the  kitchen 
regions.  Mrs.  Crow  was  only  a  nightingale 
when  deserted.  Moreover,  she  and  her  hus- 
band had  retired. 

A  summer  night  has  no  stillness;  it  is  too 
full  of  living  things,  leaves  and  grasses  breathing 
—  and  birds  that  are  never  all  asleep.  But 
now  and  again  in  the  winter  fall  nights  utterly 
silent,  as  if  the  earth  had  been  frightened  and 
lost  its  pulse.  The  world  as  it  were  is  lifeless 
in  the  clasp  of  its  own  ghost.  It  was  so  to- 
night. 

Tokenhouse  sat  on,  smoking  his  eternal 
cigarette,  smiling  a  little  sardonically,  a  little 
absently,  taking  a  reminiscent  look  at  him- 
self. 

To-day's  unexpectedness  had  thrown  open  a 
closed  book.  He  took  down  that  history 
from  its  dusty  shelf,  turning  over  its  odd 
chapters.  Why,  he  had  half  forgotten  what 
kind  of  a  man  he  was  —  once. 

Dispassionately  he  allowed  himself  an  amused 
retrospection.     Memories  crowded  on  him,  al- 
most too  many  of  them,  jostling  each  other. 
Once  or  twice  he  laughed  aloud. 
214 


THE  STRAW 

It  was  mightily  entertaining  to  look  back 
upon,  but  history  was  the  word,  not  politics; 
it  was  done.  That  momentary  spark  had  only 
served  to  recall  old,  old  extinguished  fires. 
Still,  it  was  pleasant  to  feel  that  unaccustomed 
ache  in  his  muscles;  to  know  that  he  could, 
at  a  pinch,  astonish  people  yet. 

Into  the  deadly  quietness  of  the  night  broke 
a  noise  of  horse's  hoofs.  Some  belated  way- 
farer, and  apparently  one  ill-fitted  to  journey 
in  the  dark  —  defying  obscurity  in  a  reckless 
gallop  along  the  stony  road.  At  the  corner 
there  was  a  kicking  and  plunging  as  if  the 
horse  had  been  ridden  into  the  hedge,  and 
above  the  stamping  hoofs  a  man's  voice  rang 
out  swearing  horribly  at  his  blunder,  making 
the  darkness  hideous. 

Tokenhouse  heard  it  distinctly  in  the  house. 
He  thought  of  throwing  up  the  library  window 
and  shouting  to  the  man,  probably  an  intoxi- 
cated groom;  but  before  he  had  decided 
whether  it  was  worth  the  trouble  the  disturb- 
ance had  ceased  and  the  irregular  gallop  was 
growing  distant. 

Gay  was  moving  in  his  room  overhead. 
The  old  oaken  floor  quivered  under  him  —  he 
was  getting  out  of  bed. 

315 


THE  STRAW 

"What's  up?"  called  Tokenhouse.  His 
shout,  muffled  by  the  ceiling,  obtained  no 
answer.  It  sounded  as  if  he  were  dressing, 
or  at  least  making  an  attempt  to  get  at  his 
clothes.  The  doctor  who  had  ordered  him  to 
stay  in  bed  would  certainly  not  authorise  his 
getting  up  like  that.  Tokenhouse  went  up- 
stairs to  investigate,  and  put  his  head  in  at 
the  door. 

"  If  there's  anything  you  want,  why  couldn't 
you  thump  on  the  floor?"  he  said.  "Good 
Lord,  man,  what  are  you  trying  to  do  ?" 

He  was  half  dressed  already,  although  his 
face  was  white  with  the  pain  of  movement, 
strapped  and  bandaged  as  he  was;  and  he 
looked  with  a  set,  strange  face  at  Tokenhouse. 

"Oh,  you  couldn't  hear,"  he  said.  "You 
don't  know  who  it  was  passed  down  by  the 
corner;  you  didn't  catch  his  blasphemous 
drunken  voice  - 

The  candle  flickered  in  the  draught  from 
the  open  window.  Tokenhouse  came  into  the 
room  and  shut  it  down. 

"It  was  Lauder,  was  it  ?"  he  said. 

"Who  else?"  said  Gay.  "Going  home. 
Going  home  to  her.  Do  you  understand  ?" 

"Gently,"  said  Tokenhouse.  "That  doc- 
tor's a  fool.  He  should  have  known  you'd 

216 


go  on  like  this.  .  .  .  Get  back  to  your  bed, 
Gay.  I'll  fetch  a  book  and  sit  up  with  you 
for  a  bit." 

Gay  leant  against  the  bedpost,  drawing  his 
breath  hard  between  his  teeth. 

"It  hurts  confoundedly,"  he  muttered. 

He  looked  rational  enough,  but  as  Token- 
house  laid  a  hand  on  him  he  broke  out  passion- 
ately, throwing  off  his  arm. 

"I've  got  to  protect  her,"  he  said;  "I'm 
going.  She's  alone,  I  tell  you.  .  .  .  The 
brute's  not  safe !  I'll  get  to  her  some- 
how —  if  it  wasn't  so  —  difficult." 

"You  couldn't  help  her,"  said  Tokenhouse, 
reasoning  with  him;  "it's  nearly  midnight. 
They  wouldn't  let  you  into  the  house.  You'd 
faint  before  you  reached  it." 

Gay  broke  into  gasping,  hurting  laughter. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "it's  not  the  first  time  I've 
broken  into  that  house!" 

And  then,  as  if  that  memory  itself  called  him 
back  to  immediate  action,  he  pulled  himself 
together,  the  dominating  impulse  keeping  hold 
on  his  wandering  senses. 

"Poor  little  girl;  poor  little  girl,"  he  said. 
"Don't  stare  at  me,  Tokenhouse;  I'm  not 
delirious.  I  don't  think  I  am.  You  didn't 
hear  him  cursing.  And  I've  held  off;  I've 

317 


THE  STRAW 

never  half  understood !  I'll  go  mad  unless 

I  can  get  to  her  in  time.*' 

"Quietly,"  said  Tokenhouse,  "quietly.  If 
you  go  there  you'll  find  the  house  asleep." 

"Do  you  think  he'll  let  her  sleep  ?"  said  Gay 
fiercely.  "Don't  you  see  she  is  at  his  mercy?" 

There  was  no  arguing  with  him.  Worn  out 
in  body,  with  a  mind  wearied  by  a  long  effort 
of  endurance,  he  had  been  startled  out  of 
his  uncomfortable  dozing,  and  his  unbalanced 
faculties  had  seized  upon  the  noise  outside; 
he  had  worked  himself  into  a  fever. 

Tokenhouse  interrupted  him,  his  purposely 
measured  tones  contrasting  with  the  other's 
wild  utterances. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "you  aren't  fit  for 
anything.  You  know  you  are  not,  Gay.  Go 
back  to  bed  and  —  and  I'll  take  a  turn  out- 
side. I'll  go  across  the  fields  and  listen,  if 
you  like  —  and  let  you  know  if  there  is  anything 
wrong.  That's  a  little  less  mad  than  for  you 
to  go  staggering  over  there.  You  couldn't 
do  any  good  in  that  condition." 

Gay  was  listening  to  him,  his  eyes  half 
closed,  coughing,  dizzy  with  the  pain  to  which 
he  would  not  submit,  but  which  was  conquer- 
ing him.  He  nodded. 

218 


THE  STRAW 

"Will  you  go  over  at  once  ?"  he  insisted. 
"You'll  not  sit  down  in  the  house,  pretending 
you've  gone  .  .  .  saying  to  yourself  .  .  .  the 
poor  fellow  is  out  of  his  head;  I'll  humour  him." 

There  was  an  odd  mixture  of  sense  and  un- 
reason in  his  broken  words. 

"You  can  hear  me  go  out,"  said  Tokenhouse. 

"Yes,"  said  Gay,  catching  at  that  sugges- 
tion, "so  I  can.  Hurry,  Tokenhouse.  I  don't 
mind  your  going.  That  —  pain  makes  me  too 
slow.  And  the  worst  of  it  is  I  love  her.  It's 
queer  that  anybody  can  help  a  woman  except 
the  man  who  loves  her.  He  can't,  you  know. 
It's  true.  You  told  me  so  yourself.  .  .  .  Why 
don't  you  go  ?" 

"I'll  see  you  in  bed  first,"  said  Tokenhouse, 
advancing. 

Gay  raised  his  head.  His  voice  had  dropped 
into  an  incoherent  mutter,  but  suddenly  it 
found  strength.  He  was  still  leaning  against 
the  wooden  bedpost,  clad  in  shirt  and  trousers, 
one  arm  in  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  the  other 
out  of  its  sling. 

"Not  till  you  come  back,"  he  said.  "Don't 
stand  there  like  a  graven  image.  I  swear  if  you 
don't  go,  I  shall." 

And  the  other  man  went  downstairs. 

He   thought   of  wakening   Crow   to    mount 
219 


THE  STRAW 

guard  while  he  was  gone,  but  refrained;  the 
less  known  of  this  the  better.  It  would  not  do 
to  risk  having  a  highly-coloured  version  spread 
all  over  the  countryside;  in  wakening  Crow 
his  wife  had  to  be  reckoned  with.  And  Gay 
was  not  so  lightheaded  as  to  make  the  leaving 
him  dangerous;  he  was  simply  possessed  by  a 
mastering  idea.  When  Tokenhouse  should  re- 
turn and  report  to  him  that  nothing  was  amiss, 
he  would,  no  doubt,  yield  peaceably  to  his 
own  exhaustion. 

The  chain  rattled  as  he  slipped  it  off  the 
door,  and  the  key  turned.  It  was  very  dark 
for  so  still  a  night.  Tokenhouse  stepped  over 
the  threshold. 

He  had  not  gone  out  the  back  way,  because 
to  do  so  would  have  been  to  awaken  the  dogs 
kennelled  in  the  yard,  but  he  passed  round  to 
that  side  of  the  house  through  the  outer 
paddock.  There  was  a  certain  fascination 
in  the  uninhabited  darkness.  It  made  die 
familiar  fields  unexplored  mysteries,  turning 
the  distant  wood  into  a  long  island  of  deeper 
blackness  in  the  uncharted  wastes,  and  giving 
to  a  solitary  twinkle  on  the  hilltop  the  signifi- 
cance of  a  lighthouse. 

His  sole  objective  being  to  pacify  Gay,  it 
was  surely  unnecessary  to  do  more  than  stroll 

220 


THE  STRAW 

a  few  hundred  yards,  perhaps  as  far  as  the 
ridge  yonder.  Standing  there  one  could 
dimly  track  the  road,  winding  like  a  grey 
string  in  its  circuitous  way  to  the  dark  patch 
that  indicated  Lauder's  house  in  the  hollow, 
so  near  by  the  field-path  running  through  the 
blurred  pastures  at  his  feet. 

He  was  not  the  only  night  wanderer  abroad. 
With  a  grim  sense  of  amusement  he  perceived 
a  furtive  figure  skulking  behind  the  hedge, 
and  could  not  resist  the  pleasure  of  scaring 
him,  but  let  him  go.  He  had  always  had  an 
indulgent  sympathy  for  rascals. 

It  was  time  to  turn  back.  Only  a  man  who 
had  been  knocked  silly,  disordered  by  wild 
dreams,  unmanned  by  dangerous  emotion, 
could  make  seriously  a  proposition  so  absurd 
as  that  he  should  go  on  to  that  house  and 
assure  himself  that  all  was  well.  He  had  gone 
far  enough. 

And  yet.  .  .  .  Tokenhouse  kept  on,  the  red 
ash  of  his  cigarette  betraying  his  whereabouts 
as  he  fumbled  with  the  latch  of  a  gate.  After 
all,  why  not  ? 

The  darkness  that  hid  the  path  and  wrapped 
the  gates  in  obscurity  till  he  nearly  touched 
them  brought  the  house  near.  It  seemed 
scarcely  a  minute  before  he  was  treading 

231 


THE  STRAW 

softly  on  the  gravel,  pausing  beside  the  long 
windows,  shuttered  but  negligently,  for  a 
perpendicular  streak  of  light  ran  down  the 
middle  of  one  of  them.  The  bar  had  swung 
wide  of  its  place,  and  the  shutters  had  fallen 
an  inch  or  two  apart.  .  .  . 

Tokenhouse  did  not  stand  there  long.  He 
turned  away  swiftly,  taking  less  care  in  his 
retreat;  and  struck  back  with  a  haste  that 
was  entirely  different  to  the  manner  of  his 
approach.  He  was  no  longer  a  man  yielding 
to  a  fantastic  inclination. 

Away  in  the  Pastures  a  fox  barked  thrice, 
and  again  thrice,  but  no  other  answered  him. 
Perhaps  it  was  his  call  that  awakened  the  dogs 
at  Gay's  stables.  They  lifted  up  their  voices, 
checked,  dying  down  at  once.  And  again  all 
was  quiet.  Tokenhouse,  bearing  to  the  right 
as  he  reached  the  back  of  the  house,  saw  that 
the  door  on  that  side  had  been  unfastened. 
It  was  the  quicker  way;  he  went  in  softly, 
guessing  what  that  meant.  Gay  had  not 
trusted  him;  he  had  managed  to  follow.  His 
room  was  empty. 

Quietly  Tokenhouse  came  down  and  looked 

about  in  the  library  for  a  moment.     Then  he 

started    out    again.     It    was    strange    that    he 

should  have  missed  Gay,  but  then  he  had  not 

222 


THE  STRAW 

kept  to  the  path;  he  did  not  know  it  so  well. 
And  where  the  land  dipped  the  way  was  as 
dark  as  pitch.  .  .  . 

Behind  that  ill-shuttered  window  Judy  was. 

She  had  been  comforting  herself  with 
music.  Of  late,  she  had  not  had  the  heart; 
it  stirred  her  too  much,  translated  restlessness 
and  unhappiness,  all  she  struggled  to  van- 
quish, into  a  language  that  cried  out  the 
truth  to  her.  She  played  on  her  heartstrings 
and  they  vibrated  too  intensely  to  the  wailing 
magic.  It  was  like  listening  to  the  cry  of  her 
spirit,  and  made  it  harder  to  be  brave. 

But  to-night  the  sobbing  notes  of  her 
violin  could  not  teach  her  more  sadness  than 
she  knew,  make  her  heart  beat  more  wildly, 
asking  for  the  unattainable.  As  a  child  loses 
its  pain  in  crying  she  tried  to  lose  herself. 

And  she  looked  up,  her  fingers  faltering  on 
a  last  low  note,  to  find  Lauder  standing  in  the 
doorway. 

He  had  ridden  straight  to  the  stables  and 
come  through  the  back  into  the  house.  The 
servants,  shut  into  their  own  quarters,  were 
discussing  where  he  had  been.  His  step  was 
not  steady  as  he  passed  down  the  long  passages 
into  the  other  end  of  the  house. 
223 


THE  STRAW 

"Fiddling,  are  you?"  he  said. 

His  eyes  were  bloodshot,  his  speech  thick. 
He  turned  abruptly  and  left  her,  and  as  he 
disappeared,  leaving  the  way  clear,  she  put 
down  her  violin  and  fled  instinctively,  passing 
like  a  driven  leaf  up  the  stairs.  It  was  not 
bodily  fear,  but  rather  a  kind  of  horror  of 
him  that  made  her  rush  into  her  own  room 
and  fling  herself  against  the  door,  locking  it, 
leaning  on  it,  breathless  with  her  flight. 

And  then  she  heard  him  calling  to  her  to 
come  down. 

Ashamed  of  her  terrified  impulse,  she  un- 
locked the  door  and  came  resolutely  to  the  head 
of  the  stairs.  He  was  waiting  at  the  bottom. 

"You  ran  away,"  he  said.  "Come  down 
here." 

She  hesitated.  There  was  sinister  triumph 
in  his  voice.  He  had  come  out  of  the  dining- 
room.  He  had  been  drinking  brandy.  .  .  .  And 
she  was  alone  with  him  at  this  end  of  the  house. 
Pride  forbade  her  to  call  the  servants. 

Her  hand  closed  on  the  cold,  slippery 
balustrade.  And  then,  as  she  gazed  at  Lauder 
watching  her  from  below,  her  mind  went 
back  to  another  night  when  the  hall  had  been 
dark  —  this  hall,  in  this  house  —  and  she  had 

224 


THE  STRAW 

clung  so,  listening,  till  a  man's  face  shone  in 
the  glimmering  light  of  a  match.  .  .  .  Un- 
consciously the  clinging  hand  let  go  and  went 
up  to  the  pearls  at  her  throat. 

"//  /  catch  you  bullying  your  wife  again, 
I'll  kill  you." 

The  man  who  had  said  that  could  not  come 
to  her  help.  She  might  call  him,  he  would 
not  hear.  But  the  thought  of  him  steadied 
her.  Why  was  she  trembling  ?  Oh,  surely, 
surely  she  was  a  fool,  since  she  had  forgotten 
how  safe  she  was.  The  one  thing  that  made 
life  supportable  was  that  look  of  sullen  hatred 
disfiguring  the  face  of  the  man  below.  She 
had  been  shrinking  from  that;  shivering  at 
that  —  a  hatred  that  saved  her  from  him, 
although  he  was  her  husband.  .  .  . 

And  she  came  down  to  him. 

"Ah,"  he  said.  "Tou're  afraid  of  me,  at 
least.  There's  one  person  left  who  daren't 
sneer  at  me.  .  .  .  Why  did  you  stop  your 
fiddling  ?  Why  did  you  run  upstairs,  you 
spiritless  little  coward?" 

He  caught  her  rudely  by  the  wrist,  and  she 
looked  up  without  speaking  into  his  heavy, 
marred,  handsome  face.  What  did  he  want 
with  her  ?  Ah,  thank  God,  thank  God  that 
he  did  not  love  her.  .  .  . 
Q  225 


THE  STRAW 

"What  are  you  smiling  at?"  said  Lauder. 

Anger  took  him  with  the  notion  that  her 
terror  of  him  was  not  as  absolute  as  he  had 
fancied.  She  was  such  a  wisp  of  a  thing  in 
his  grasp.  The  sight  of  her  always  roused  in 
him  cruel  instincts.  He  owed  her  too  much, 
gain  and  loss;  and  his  grudge  against  her  had 
turned  into  a  kind  of  a  passion.  That  she 
should  learn  at  last  to  brave  him  was  incon- 
ceivable, but  the  mere  suspicion  maddened 
him.  He  dragged  her  across  the  hall  by  the 
arm,  and  pushed  her  into  the  room  where  he 
had  found  her. 

"Pick  up  your  fiddle,"  he  said. 

Mechanically  she  did  his  bidding  as  he 
released  her,  and  when  she  turned  she  saw 
that  he  had  shut  the  door.  His  unsteady  eyes 
were  fixed  on  her  with  a  dreadful  meaning. 

"Sophia  wouldn't  sell  me  that  horse,"  he 
said.  "I  would  have  shot  him.  She  said  it 
wasn't  the  brute's  fault.  After  all,  she  was 
right.  You  were  the  little  pale  temptress 
that  came  between  us.  Suppose  I  shoot  you 
instead  ?" 

His  glare  at  her  was  so  ruthless  that  Judy 
could  not  be  sure  that  it  was  a  drunken  threat. 
She  stood  motionless  —  wondering. 

"It's    all    your    doing,"    he    said;     "if  you 
226 


THE  STRAW 

hadn't  come  and  glittered  in  my  eyes,  I'd 
never  have  failed  Sophia.  She  warned  me  I 
couldn't  do  without  her.  And  she'll  never 
forgive  me,  do  you  hear  ?  You  and  your 
accursed  money  took  the  manhood  out  of  me. 
It  chokes  me.  No  use  my  truckling  to  her, 
following  her  like  a  beaten  hound.  .  .  .  She'll 
never  forgive  me  till  I  am  in  hell." 

His  arm  straightened  suddenly,  menacing 
her,  and  Judy,  seeing  a  gleaming  barrel,  gave  a 
cry.  Then  —  then  —  the  man  was  in  earnest  ? 

"You  needn't  scream,"  said  Lauder.  "You 
don't  imagine  anybody  could  burst  in  here 
in  time  ?  I  could  shoot  you  a  hundred  times 
while  the  servants  were  huddling  outside  the 
door." 

He  paused  as  if  thinking  out  an  idea. 

"Go  on  with  your  fiddling,"  he  said.  "Play 
a  tune.  Play  the  thing  you  were  at  when  I 
came  in  and  scared  you.  I'll  let  you  finish 
it,  and  then  —  I'll  make  an  end  of  this.  D'you 
understand  ?" 

She  began  to  think  he  was  amusing  himself 
with  her.  It  was  the  uncertainty  that  was 
awful.  Like  one  in  a  dream  she  lifted  her 
bow  and  settled  the  violin  under  her  chin. 
Her  fingers  found  the  strings. 

Lauder  had  sunk  heavily  into  a  chair  be- 
227 


THE  STRAW 

tween  her  and  the  door.  He  leaned  his  head 
on  his  hand,  watching  her  with  the  intentness 
of  a  man  at  a  play.  She  could  not  tell  how 
far  he  was  still  himself,  how  far  stimulated  by 
the  brandy  of  which  his  breath  was  reeking. 
His  face  was  darkly  red,  his  eyes  were  glazing, 
but  always  fixed  on  her;  and  there  was  a 
grinning  relentlessness  in  his  mouth. 

She  played,  measuring  no  chances,  mes- 
merised, reckless.  If  this  were  a  trick  to  drive 
her  into  abject  terror  and  gratify  his  lust  for 
tyranny,  or  if  it  were  his  dreadful  earnest, 
she  could  not  guess.  Perhaps  the  fear  he 
thirsted  to  inspire  had  passed  in  its  very 
extremity  into  fascination;  or  perhaps  the 
bodily  harm  he  threatened  —  death  itself  — 
had  come  to  appear  as  nothing  beside  that  one 
burning  thought  that  lifted  her  up  and  made 
all  misery  evil  shadows  —  the  thought  that 
this  man,  who  could  crush  her  in  his  arms 
and  kill  her,  against  whom  she  had  no  strength, 
was  her  enemy  .  .  .  nothing  worse. 

And  all  this  while  the  strings  vibrated;  the 
bow  quivered  across  them;  her  fingers  trav- 
elled nimbly;  and  her  one  listener  was  wait- 
ing for  the  music  to  end.  She  would  know 
then.  .  .  . 

How  was  it  she  could  never  reach  the  last 
228 


THE  STRAW 

wild  note  ?  She  seemed  always  near  it,  and 
yet  it  never  came.  Was  she  doomed  to 
wander  for  ever  in  a  maze  of  plaintive  melody, 
unable  to  find  the  true,  the  fatal  chord  ? 

Her  arm  ached.  She  became  dimly  con- 
scious that  this  was  strange  music  she  was 
making,  less  and  less  recalling  the  tune  she 
had  begun.  As  if  in  a  trance  she  had  all  un- 
knowing left  it  behind;  she  was  improvis- 
ing. .  .  . 

How  long  had  she  been  playing  ?  How 
long  had  Lauder  been  sitting  there  with  his 
implacable  drunken  eyes,  watching  for  her 
to  break  down,  to  cry,  to  implore  him  for 
pity  ?  Was  it  she  that  laughed  ? 

He  lurched  to  his  feet,  but  his  hands  were 
empty.  Had  she  imagined  all  that  horror, 
and  where  was  the  shining  thing  that  had 
glistened  in  his  hand  ?  How  ugly  his  face 
was  now;  how  distorted.  .  .  . 

"So  you're  not  afraid,  are  you?"  he  said. 
"You  laugh  at  me,  too?  I'll  teach  you " 


229 


CHAPTER  XII 

"T  Y  7AS  I  a  bit  queer  last  night  ?"  said  Gay. 

VV  Tokenhouse  came  into  the  room 
with  his  usual  lounging  step,  and  looked  at 
him  over  the  end  of  the  bed. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "as  a  matter  of  fact,  you 
were." 

"What  did  I  do?"  said  Gay. 

Tokenhouse  did  not  answer  directly. 

"What  do  you  think  yourself?"  he  said. 
His  tone  was  mildly  curious,  as  if  it  would 
be  amusing,  but  not  vital,  to  hear  Gay's  own 
idea  on  a  matter  of  no  importance. 

"It  sounds  awfully  mad,"  said  Gay.  "But 
do  you  know  I've  a  sort  of  notion  I  woke  up 
and  heard  Lauder  galloping  home,  cursing, 
and  got  it  into  my  head  that  he  was  dangerous 
—  and  —  started  out  to  protect  —  her.  It's  all 
confused.  I  remember  trying  to  get  over  a 
stile  and  tumbling  back  into  the  ditch  —  and 
groaning.  It  was  like  a  bad  dream.  I  didn't 
get  far.  You  don't,  in  a  nightmare." 
230 


THE  STRAW 

"No,"  said  Tokenhouse;  "you  didn't  get 
far/' 

"How  did  I  get  back?"  said  Gay. 

"You've  no  recollection  of  that?"  said 
Tokenhouse. 

"None  whatever." 

"That  is  odd.  I  found  you  at  that  stile 
you  mention,  and  helped  you  on  to  your  legs 
and  brought  you  home." 

"By  yourself?"  said  Gay. 

"Why  not?"  said  Tokenhouse.  "You 
don't  suppose  I  had  to  carry  you  ?  In  that 
case  I  should  have  rapped  up  Crow  and  put 
up  with  his  wife's  hysterics.  They  slept 
through  it  all.  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  hold 
your  tongue  about  the  whole  thing.  To 
oblige  me;  for  my  personal  convenience." 

"Why?"  said  Gay. 

"It  might  be  awkward  for  me  if  it  was 
known  that  I  had  been  prowling  outside  at 
all  hours,"  said  Tokenhouse  carelessly.  "I 
don't  want  to  shock  you,  but  our  neighbour, 
Lauder,  has  been  found  shot." 

"Good  heavens!"  said  Gay. 

He  started  up  in  bed  with  a  suddenness  that 
made  him  flinch. 

"And  she-    —  ?"  he  said,  deadly  pale. 

"Mrs.  Lauder  was  found  lying  insensible 
231 


THE  STRAW 

in  her  room,"  said  Tokenhouse  quietly.  "No, 
he  did  not  hurt  her.  The  queer  thing  is  they 
don't  seem  to  know  whether  he  shot  himself 
or  not.  There  was  a  window  broken  or  open, 
or  something  of  the  kind.  It  was  a  black 
frost  and  they  can't  track  any  footmarks. 
So  you  see  why  I  want  you  to  be  discreet." 

Gay   was    trying   to    grasp    the    tremendous 
tale.     He   looked   at  the  teller  blankly. 

"But,"  he  stammered,  "it  was  as  bad  for 
me   as   for  you.     We   were   both   out " 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Tokenhouse,  smiling. 
"You  were  not  in  a  condition  to  shoot  a  cat. 
All  the  world  knows  you  had  an  accident 
yesterday,  and  there's  the  doctor  to  swear  to 
all  your  ribs  and  contusions  and  the  Lord 
knows  what.  He  left  you  in  bed  with  a  sleep- 
ing draught,  didn't  he,  after  he  had  pulled 
you  about  ?  Said  you  were  not  to  get  up  for 
a  week.  You  can't  lift  your  right  arm  without 
pain.  Oh,  you  are  safe  from  uncharitable 
hypotheses,  even  if  it  were  known  that  you  had 
managed  to  stagger  out  of  the  house.  When 
the  doctor  comes  round  this  morning,  he'll 
probably  say  you  are  worse.  Tell  him  you 
tried  to  get  up;  no  more  than  that.  He'll 
never  imagine  you  capable  of  that  escapade, 
let  alone  committing  murder." 
232 


THE  STRAW 

Gay  looked  at  him  doubtfully. 

"Moreover,"  said  Tokenhouse,  "Lauder 
and  I  were  uncivil  to  each  other  over  that 
race  of  ours.  I  think  my  remarks  would  bear 
the  interpretation  that  I  had  a  crow  to  pluck 
with  him.  I  don't  want  to  put  any  preposter- 
ous notion  into  your  head;  I  am  simply 
explaining  to  you  why  it  is  more  important 
for  me  than  for  you  to  keep  quiet  about  last 
night.  When  I've  got  your  word  on  the 
subject,  I'll  let  Crow  bring  up  your  breakfast 
and  allow  the  Babes  to  come  up  —  if  you  feel 
you  can  stand  them.  I  believe  they've  been 
here  since  cock-crow." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  said  Gay.  "But,  Token- 
house  —  how  is  she  ? " 

All  other  matters  faded  before  his  thought 
of  Judy. 

"  I  believe  Maria  has  gone  to  her,"  said 
Tokenhouse.  He  took  a  turn  up  and  down 
the  room. 

"It  looks  tidy,"  he  said,  reflecting.  "No- 
body would  guess  who  had  been  your  valet. 
You  look  as  if  you  had  had  a  bad  night;  pale 
and  feeble  and  all  that;  but,  by  Jove,  you 
did  sleep  towards  morning.  The  Crows  are 
bitterly  disappointed  I  wouldn't  allow  them 
to  rush  in  and  waken  you  with  the  horrid 

233 


THE  STRAW 

news.  Hark  to  the  jabbering  crew  in  the 
kitchen." 

He  went  to  the  top  of  the  stair,  and  im- 
mediately there  was  a  cessation  of  noise  as 
Crow  stopped  discussion  to  bring  up  his  mas- 
ter's breakfast.  The  Babes,  taking  that  signal 
for  permission,  mounted  on  his  heels  and 
established  themselves  more  or  less  comfort- 
ably around  the  patient.  He  looked  bad, 
more  haggard  than  he  had  yesterday,  and  they 
opened  their  mouths  to  cheer  him  with  a 
circumstantial  account  of  all  they  had  heard 
and  collected  since  the  first  alarm.  The  sight 
of  him  extinguished  a  wild  and  fearful  romance 
they  had  been  nursing,  and  gave  their  eager 
voices  an  apologetic  note. 

"He  must  have  shot  himself,  you  know," 
said  Pinner  with  conviction. 

"There  was  a  revolver  on  the  floor  beside 
him,"  said  Stokes. 

"His  valet  found  him;  and  he  says  —  but 
it's  all  nonsense  about  that  window;  it  wasn't 
even  broken,"  said  Pinner  hastily.  "It's  only 
that  the  shutter  wasn't  fastened,  and  the  win- 
dow is  one  of  these  long  walk-in  ones  with  a 
knob  like  a  door-handle  that  can  turn  on  either 
side;  and  the  catch  is  loose,  a  shake  and  a 
push  lets  you  in.  But  how  was  anybody  to 
234 


THE  STRAW 

know  that  the  bar  wasn't  across  the  shutter  ? 
And  who'd  go  and  leave  his  weapon  beside  his 
victim,  and  then  remember  to  pull  the  shutter 
and  close  the  window  after  him  ?" 

"It  sounds  inconsistent,"  said  Tokenhouse 
gravely;  "unless  he  wanted  to  leave  some  evi- 
dence behind  him." 

Pinner  glanced  at  him  uncomfortably,  sus- 
pecting sarcasm. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  suppose  it'll  all  come 
out  at  the  inquest.  I'll  tell  you  one  person 
who's  sure  it's  murder,  and  that  is  our  man 
Johnson.  He's  worked  himself  into  a  panic. 
Says  he  can't  stay  in  the  place;  it  might  be 
his  turn  next." 

"There's  no  pleasing  him,"  said  Stokes,  but 
with  resignation.  "He  was  always  complain- 
ing that  it  was  dull,  and  saying  the  country 
got  on  his  nerves,  and  promising  to  desert  us; 
he  said  all  that  kept  him  alive  was  reading  the 
murders  in  the  paper.  And  as  soon  as  we  pro- 
vide a  sensation,  off  he  is!" 

The  recollection  of  Johnson's  woe  broke  up 
their  aspect  of  proper  solemnness. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  said  Pinner.  "  You 
wouldn't,  Gay,  not  if  it  was  your  grandmother 
who'd  been  killed,  if  you'd  seen  the  respect- 
able Johnson  with  his  hair  standing  up  on  end 

235 


THE  STRAW 

—  and  it  so  sleek  —  exclaiming  he  daren't 
stop.  Poor  wretch.  He  used  to  go  down  at 
night  to  the  public-house  in  the  village  and 
sit  there  till  closing  time,  and  then  hang  about 
outside  till  the  policeman  passed  on  his  round 
-  and  then  they'd  walk  on  together.  He'd 
no  more  have  ventured  to  make  his  way  back 
himself  than  fly;  he  was  too  afraid  of  hob- 
goblins. And  the  policeman  used  to  wait  a 
bit  at  the  turn  when  they  parted,  just  to  give 
him  a  feeling  of  protection  while  he  ran  up 
the  fields  in  the  dark.  At  least,  he  pretended 
to." 

"If  we  weren't  asleep  when  he  got  in," 
said  Stokes,  "we  used  to  hear  him  puffing 
and  blowing  after  his  run.  Not  much  chance 
for  goblins  to  lay  hold  of  him.  But  he  says 
he  couldn't  bear  to  remain  in  this  unholy 
locality.  Says  he  feels  he's  had  a  wonderful 
escape,  but  he'd  be  frightened  to  death  of 
Lauder's  ghost,  if  he  stayed  on  what  he  calls 
the  Spot." 

"I  told  him,"  said  Pinner,  "that  if  he  bolted 
it  would  look  as  if  he'd  done  it,  and  you  should 
have  seen  him  jump.  He's  consulted  with 
his  friend  the  policeman,  who  roared  at  the 
idea  more  than  we  did,  and  said  he'd  bear  wit- 
ness he  saw  him  home." 
236 


THE  STRAW 

"We  shan't  know  what  to  do  with  ourselves 
without  him,"  said  Stokes.  "It'll  be  a  per- 
petual holiday.  No  more  collars." 

He  dismissed  the  subject  cheerfully,  their 
release  from  the  civilising  influence  being  a 
consoling  prospect,  and  turned  his  attention  to 
Gay. 

"We're  worrying  you,  aren't  we?"  he  said. 
"We'll  clear  out.  You  wouldn't  like  us  to 
look  after  the  farm,  or  anything,  would  you  ? 
That  foreman  of  yours  always  sniffs  at  us, 
but  we'd  try  to  stand  up  to  him." 

"No,  thanks,"  said  Gay.  "I'll  manage. 
I'll  be  out  soon  myself." 

The  Babes,  struck  by  his  battered  look, 
decided  that  he  was  bad.  Of  course,  he  was 
shocked  by  last  night's  catastrophe.  So  were 
they,  but  their  horror  was  merging  in  excite- 
ment. They  took  themselves  off  at  last. 

"Ask  Crow  to  come  and  help  me  to  dress," 
said  Gay.  "I  don't  care  what  the  doctor 
says.  I  must  get  downstairs." 

He  was  impatient  of  his  own  weakness,  of 
the  painful  coughing  that  an  effort  cost.  He 
had  done  himself  no  good  by  his  crazy  at- 
tempt last  night.  This  morning  his  head 
ached,  but  it  was  clear. 

Lauder     had     shot     himself.     The     words 


THE  STRAW 

called  up  a  dreadful  vision  of  what  might 
have  happened  worse,  of  the  danger  that  must 
have  been  incurred  by  Judy.  If  the  man  had 
been  as  mad  as  that,  what  could  he  not  have 
done  ? 

"You  are  not  lying  to  me,  Tokenhouse  ?" 
he  said,  in  a  suddenly  shaken  voice.  "You 
are  sure  she's  not  hurt  ?  But  you  have  not 
seen  her.  Tell  me  the  truth." 

Tokenhouse  looked  at  him  gravely. 

"I  know  she  is  not  hurt,"  he  said.  "You 
can  take  my  word." 

Judy  lay  with  her  hand  clasped  in  Maria's 
and  her  face  crushed  into  the  pillow.  At 
times  a  shudder  ran  through  her  body,  and 
then  Maria  squeezed  her  hand  tighter  and 
murmured  something  vague  and  kind.  She 
felt  as  if  she  had  lain  thus  for  ever,  but  she 
wanted  never  to  lift  her  head. 

There  was  a  clock  ticking  on  the  wall,  and 
far,  far  down  below  in  the  house  there  were 
voices,  hushed  voices,  all  muffled  in  their 
talking,  whispering  tragedy.  She  wondered 
if  they  were  real  voices,  because  nothing  could 
shut  them  out  from  her  ears.  She  liked  to  hear 
the  clock;  time  was  passing,  with  each  minute 
carrying  her  a  little  further  from  last  night. 

238 


THE  STRAW 

Only,  all  the  minutes  were  the  same.  .  .  . 
How  many  must  pass  before  she  could  feel 
that  they  were  different;  that  that  was  at  last 
a  little  distant  ?  She  listened,  counting  .  .  . 
and  gave  it  up  with  a  new  shudder.  Minute 
by  minute  the  clock  might  tick  on  for  years, 
and  still  she  would  be  lying,  listening  in 
vain.  .  .  . 

Maria,  with  mistaken  officiousness,  had  risen 
once  and  gone  to  the  mantelpiece  to  stop 
the  monotonous  clack  that  went  on  so  loud, 
but  Judy  had  cried  out  at  the  dreadful 
silence.  Not  that  —  anything  but  that.  With- 
out understanding,  Maria  had  let  the  clock 
go  on. 

It  was  all  very  terrible  to  Maria,  but  she 
was  full  of  curiosity.  There  was  so  much  she 
was  dying  to  ask;  so  much  more  than  the 
maid  could  tell  her.  She,  on  the  alarm  being 
given,  had  rushed  up  to  look  for  her  mistress, 
and  found  her  lying  on  her  bed.  Of  course,  the 
woman  had  thrown  herself  down  beside  her, 
screaming,  and  Judy  had  heard  the  catastrophe 
from  her  lips,  as  soon  as  consciousness  came 
to  her. 

The  doctor  had  said  that  Mrs.  Lauder  was 
suffering  from  the  shock.  He  had  asked 
Maria  to  watch  over  her  and  see  that  she  was 
239 


THE  STRAW 

asked  no  questions,  and  Maria  had  bridled  her 
tongue  with  pain. 

At  last  Judy,  without  lifting  her  face,  without 
turning,  spoke  below  her  breath. 

"Is  he  —  dead  ?"  she  said. 

"Oh,  Judy,  poor  Judy,"  said  Maria,  "didn't 
they  tell  you  ?" 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  fair  head  crumpled 
into  the  pillow,  on  the  soft  curve  of  Judy's 
neck.  The  maids  had  undressed  her,  put  her 
into  a  thin  muslin  nightdress;  and  her  arm 
lay  bare  and  childish  outside  the  coverlet. 
Maria  had  not  yet  seen  her  hidden  face. 

"Yes,"  said  Judy.  "They  said  —  they 
said " 

Her  voice  faltered  into  silence,  as  if  what 
had  been  told  her  once  could  not  be  repeated, 
but  must  be  left  to  the  dreadful  uncertainty 
of  thought.  And  then,  all  at  once,  she  clutched 
the  hand  holding  hers. 

"He  shot  himself,"  she  said.  "He  shot 
himself." 

"Tell  me,"  said  Maria,  in  a  soothing 
murmur.  This  was  not  asking  questions.  She 
leaned  a  little  closer. 

"He  must  have  shot  himself  .  .  ."  said 
Judy,  in  the  same  horrorstruck,  but  persisting, 
whisper. 

240 


THE  STRAW 

"Yes  —  yes  .  .  ."  said  Maria.  Doubtless 
the  servant's  first  cry  had  been  of  murder;  it 
must  be  ringing  still  in  her  ears.  .  .  . 

The  girl  moved,  only  to  crush  her  face  deeper 
into  the  pillow.  Then  at  last  she  turned  and 
let  Maria  see  its  desperate  whiteness,  and  the 
wildness  in  her  tearless  eyes. 

"  There  was  nobody  —  there,"  she  said. 
"Nobody  who  could  —  but  himself.  I  think 
he  was  mad.  He  tried  to  frighten  me.  He 
was  angry.  What  did  I  do  to  make  him 

angry ?     He  struck  me,  and  I  remember 

falling.     Nobody  was  there.  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  livid  mark  on  her  forehead; 
it  showed  plain  as  she  lay  gazing  up  at  the 
other  woman,  who  was  kind  but  could  not 
divine  what  assurance  she  was  beseeching  of 
her. 

"He  must  have  carried  me  upstairs,"  she 
whispered,  "  and  gone  down  —  and  shot  him- 
self." 

Always  the  same  piteous  insistence,  as  if 
it  were  dragged  from  her  by  her  own  longing 
to  hear  it  aloud,  and  so  shut  her  ears  to  another 
thought.  Maria  was  not  subtle  enough  to 
catch  that  meaning. 

"You  don't  remember  any  more?"  she 
asked. 

R  241 


THE  STRAW 

"  No,"  said  Judy.  "  Only  —  somebody  carry- 
ing me  —  very  carefully,  very  gently  —  and  lay- 
ing me  down  again;  a  sort  of  half-conscious 
waking,  afraid  to  look,  afraid  to  lose  the  dream 
—  and  falling  asleep.  He  never  touched  me  like 
that  before  —  he  must  have  been  —  sorry.  It 
could  not  —  there  was  not  -  —  !  There  was 
not  any  one  there  —  but  him." 

"No,"  said  Maria,  vaguely  understanding 
that  she  was  implored  to  agree.  "It  must 
have  been  he.  Poor  Bill!" 

Judy  turned  that  sad,  wild  face  away;  her 
lip  quivered. 

"Oh  --  "  she  said.  "I  —  I  tried  to  be 
to  him." 


It  was  all  that  she  had  to  say  of  the  man 
who  had  taken  all  and  given  her  worse  than 
nothing. 


242 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  inquest  was  over. 
It  had  been  carried  out  with  a  discreet 
reticence  that  culminated  in  an  open  verdict. 
Lauder  had  been  shot,  whether  by  himself  or 
another  there  was  not  sufficient  evidence  to 
show.  The  medical  testimony  was  not  con- 
clusive; it  admitted  that  it  was  possible  for 
Lauder  to  have  fired  the  shot  —  and  the  re- 
volver had  been  found  beside  him. 

It  was  generally  believed  that  the  jury  had 
avoided  a  verdict  of  suicide  out  of  sympathy 
with  the  widow,  preferring  to  leave  her  the 
chance  of  clinging  to  the  thought  of  an  acci- 
dent. Few  seriously  doubted  that  Lauder  had 
met  his  death  at  his  own  hands.  But  strange 
things  are  always  said,  wild  speculations  are 
always  rife,  at  times  like  these;  and  although 
public  opinion  as  a  whole  took  a  sensible  view 
of  Lauder's  tragic  end,  some  were  found  to 
differ. 

It  was  rumoured  that  the  police  were  making 
243 


THE  STRAW 

some  mystery  about  the  revolver  that  had  been 
found,  had  been  working  independently  while 
the  coroner,  rising  superior  to  the  ancient 
rivalry  between  the  amateur  and  professional 
investigator,  forbore  to  press  points  whose 
premature  elucidation  might  hamper  them, 
meekly  subduing  that  natural  vanity  that 
occasionally  magnifies  the  importance  of  an 
office. 

And  among  these  who  refused  to  take  the 
commonsense  view  and  dismiss  the  matter  as 
regrettable,  but  not  surprising,  having  regard 
to  the  antecedents  of  the  man  —  was  Sophia 
Bland. 

She  made  no  outward  show  of  mourning; 
came  out  hunting  as  usual,  riding  as  carelessly 
as  ever  on  borrowed  horses.  And  she  seemed 
not  to  notice  the  curious  looks  that  were  cast 
at  her;  the  way  talk  dropped  away  as  she  rode 
into  it.  She  did  not  care  if  her  world  chose 
to  hint  that  she  was  morally  responsible  for 
what  had  happened,  to  accuse  Lauder's  in- 
fatuation for  her  as  the  cause  of  his  downfall. 

When  she  came  upon  discussion  too  suddenly 
she  flung  her  word  at  the  men  who  would  have 
hushed  each  other  in  her  hearing,  declaring 
her  unalterable  belief  that  Lauder  had  not 
killed  himself. 

344 


THE  STRAW 

"I  don't  like  the  way  she  takes  it,"  said 
Lord  Robert  uneasily.  "I'm  not  pretending 
that  the  rest  of  us  cared  for  Lauder.  But  she 
-  she  did  once,  anyhow.  Perhaps  she  feels  a 
bit  guilty,  and  that  is  why  she  insists  that  we're 
all  idiots  to  stick  to  the  obvious  conclusion 
about  a  man  who  was  capable  of  anything, 
judging  by  the  way  he  carried  on  that  last 
afternoon.  What  does  she  mean  by  it  though  ? 
There's  a  vindictive  look  about  her,  a  sort  of 
'I'm  biding  my  time'  suggestion.  I  hope  she 
doesn't  suspect  /  did  it  ?  What's  the  matter 
with  Burkinshaw?" 

He  screwed  himself  round  to  stare  at  Maria's 
husband,  who  was  passing  him,  and  whose 
jolly  aspect  was  uncommonly  disturbed. 

"Hi!"  he  said.  "Magistrate!  Has  any- 
body applied  to  you  for  a  warrant?" 

Burkinshaw  started  visibly;  checked  his 
horse;  rode  on  bursting  with  discomposure - 
and  joined  another  man  with  whom  he  began 
a  solemn  confabulation.  They  drew  away  a 
little,  shaking  their  heads.  One  magistrate 
may  whisper  to  another  things  that  cannot  be 
divulged.  Lord  Robert  pricked  up  his  ears. 

"There  is  something  afoot,"  he  said; 
"something  blanching  your  cheek,  Burkin- 
shaw, and  lending  a  furtive  squint  to  your 

245 


THE  STRAW 

eye.  Out  with  it.  You  aren't  the  kind  of 
being  to  hug  mysteries." 

Burkinshaw  looked  at  him  pompously,  break- 
ing off  his  conference  to  utter  a  magisterial 
rebuke. 

"It  is  not  a  case  for  levity,"  he  said. 

"If  the  police  are  really  working  like  moles," 
retorted  Lord  Robert,  unabashed,  "I  wish 
they'd  throw  up  a  little  earth." 

But  he  fell  back  on  Rafferty. 

"I  am  not  really  callous,"  he  said.  "I'd 
feel  just  as  interested  if  it  were  my  own  funeral 
that  made  a  sensation.  Of  course,  it  was  a 
horrid  shock  hearing  about  Lauder;  but  that 
wears  off.  I  wasn't  what  you  would  call 
astounded.  And  I  can't  help  being  amused 
at  the  idea  of  a  mysterious  criminal  walking 
into  his  house  to  shoot  him." 

Rafferty  acknowledged  the  justice  of  his 
remark. 

"The  very  ones  that  suggest  it,"  he  said, 
"would  be  the  first  to  drop  down  dead  with 
amazement  if  it  turned  out  so." 

Lord  Robert  suppressed  a  gleam. 

"If  I  were  the  unfeeling  monster  Burkin- 
shaw insinuates,"  he  said,  "I'd  invent  a  tale 
that  yonder  ferrety  horse-dealer  on  the  road 
is  a  detective  mixing  with  us  to  run  the 
246 


THE  STRAW 

murderer  to  earth.  It  could  be  done,  Rafferty. 
I  know  lots  of  fellows  who'd  swallow  it  all  and 
squirm  as  I  hinted  darkly  at  the  direction  of 
his  suspicions  - 

He  sighed,  relinquishing  endless  opportuni- 
ties for  untimely  joking. 

"All  the  same,"  he  said,  "there  is  some- 
thing peculiar  in  the  air.  Burkinshaw  won't 
be  able  to  keep  it  long  to  himself;  he  is  an 
arrant  gossip.  I'll  hang  on  his  skirts  awhile." 

But  when  the  revelation  came  it  was  in- 
credible. .  .  . 

It  leaked  out  at  the  close  of  the  day  when  a 
muddy  troop  followed,  more  or  less  satisfied 
but  reluctant  to  leave  off,  in  the  wake  of  hounds. 
The  hearts  of  those  in  authority  had  been 
at  last  melted  by  the  urgent  entreaties  of  Stokes 
and  Pinner,  whose  greatest  ambition  was  that 
hounds  should  draw  the  spinney  at  the  back 
of  the  Tin  House,  a  distinction  that  they  felt 
would  make  them  immortal.  They  had  used 
all  the  blandishments  they  could  devise  to 
induce  a  fox  to  take  up  his  habitation  in  it.  In 
the  summer  they  had  managed  to  catch  a  cub 
and  had  introduced  him  to  a  luxurious  earth 
they  had  dug  and  lined  with  hay.  For  two 
or  three  days  they  had  gone  about  their  busi- 
ness as  mum  as  mice,  afraid  to  disturb  him 

247 


THE  STRAW 

until  he  had  settled  in  his  new  quarters,  cau- 
tiously tip-toeing  to  the  edge  of  the  spinney 
to  leave  a  nightly  offering  of  a  rabbit.  He 
made  no  sign,  but  the  rabbits  went,  and  they 
fondly  trusted  that  he  was  shyly  keeping 
hidden.  It  seemed  unlikely  that  such  a  fat, 
furry  little  beast  could  have  acquired  an  ex- 
ploring spirit. 

Bitter  was  their  disappointment  one  misty 
dawn  to  see  a  strange  collie  ranging  in  search 
of  the  tribute  they  had  for  once  forgotten, 
and  to  find  that  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
calling  round  for  it  on  his  way  shepherding. 
His  master,  whistling  furiously  on  the  other 
side  of  the  hill,  put  the  matter  beyond  a  doubt. 
They  dived  into  the  charmed  circle  of  wind- 
sown  ashes  surrounding  the  original  three 
Scotch  firs,  and  found  it  empty.  The  wicked 
cub  had  not  spent  a  single  night  therein; 
had  pelted  back  to  the  distant  kingdom 
whence  he  had  been  carried,  growling  and 
snapping,  hugged  to  Pinner's  breast. 

Kidnapping  having  turned  out  a  failure, 
they  resorted  to  milder  plans  to  advertise  a 
vacancy  to  the  foxes;  nearly  poisoned  them- 
selves by  leaving  the  carcass  of  a  sheep  in 
its  vicinity,  and  bought  fifty  hens  at  an  auction, 
religiously  omitting  to  lock  them  up  at  night.' 
248 


THE  STRAW 

But  the  miserable  fowls  cackled  with  im- 
punity, actually  roosting  in  the  trees,  and  it 
was  not  until  Stokes  hit  on  the  brilliant  idea 
of  stocking  some  pedigree  Brahmas  (it  was  not 
original,  but  had  struck  him  on  hearing  the 
secretary  of  the  hunt  poultry  fund  enlarging 
on  the  wily  discrimination  of  foxes  between  a 
prize  bird  and  a  barn-door  fowl)  that  luck 
turned. 

Soon  after,  Stokes,  finding  a  minute  to  attend 
to  duty,  counting  his  chickens,  without  hope, 
purely  from  habit,  raised  a  whoop  of  joy. 
Three  of  them  had  gone.  It  was  indubitably 
a  fox,  although  he  had  not  bitten  off  their 
heads.  And  a  fox  having  once  found  out  the 
spinney,  all  swept  and  garnished,  it  seemed  to 
them,  full  of  faith,  that  he  would  not  be  able 
to  resist  popping  in  and  out,  seeking  it  as  a 
refuge,  even  if  he  did  not  take  up  his  abode 
there  entirely.  They  sent  in  urgent  appeals 
to  the  Hunt  for  a  visit. 

"Give  the  Babes  a  call,"  said  Tokenhouse. 
"They'd  stand  on  their  heads  with  pride." 

He  had  strolled  out  of  doors  to  behold  what 
was  going  on,  hearing  the  tramp  of  horses,  and 
leaned  over  a  gate  watching  hounds  drifting  by 
on  their  way  to  the  last  draw  of  the  afternoon. 

249 


THE  STRAW 

The  Master  demurred. 

"They  have  been  pitching  harrowing  tales 
of  depredations  among  their  poultry,"  he 
said;  "but  foxes  don't  usually  dine  and  sleep. 
I  shouldn't  think  they'd  forsake  the  Pastures 
for  that  draughty  hilltop." 

"Still,  they  might  steal  up  there  to  keep 
out  of  the  way,"  said  Tokenhouse.  "As 
to  the  hens  —  I  met  a  gentleman  the  other 
night  crawling  through  a  fence  with  a  bundle 
of  feathers  under  his  arm.  And  I  asked  him 
what  he  was  up  to  - 

"Asked  him?" 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Tokenhouse,  "he  was  a 
two-legged  fox." 

"The  other  night?"  said  Burkinshaw,  and 
bit  his  tongue. 

"Yes,  that  night,"  said  Tokenhouse  with 
intention. 

Lord  Robert  glanced  from  one  to  the 
other. 

"You  look  deuced  uncomfortable,  Burkin- 
shaw," he  said;  "not  to  say  guilty.  You 
don't  mean  to  confess  it  was  you?" 

Tokenhouse  went  on,  ignoring  Burkinshaw's 
disquiet  at  his  allusion. 

"I  dare  say  you  know  who  it  was,"  he  said. 
"  Had  some  communication  with  him  perhaps  ? 
250 


THE  STRAW 

I  advised  him  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it, 
and  it  might  not  turn  to  his  disadvantage." 

Burkinshaw  looked  more  ill  at  ease  than 
ever. 

"What  happened?"  said  Lord  Robert,  who 
had  not  the  key  to  this. 

"We  parted  the  best  of  friends,"  said  Token- 
house.  "I  was  in  a  hurry  and  so  was 
he.  What  he  said  was,  'Them  innocents  keeps 
fowls  a  purpose  to  entice  the  foxes;  they're 
breakin'  their  'arts  over  it,  and  it's  crool  to  let 
'em  be  disappointed,  so  I've  been  and  fetched 
a  couple." 

"In  that  case,"  said  the  Master,  "unless 
we  are  going  to  hunt  your  friend  - 

"Oh,  give  them  a  look  in,"  said  Tokenhouse. 
"Just  run  your  hounds  through  the  spinney." 

So  it  was  that  the  Babes  were  plunged  in  the 
seventh  heaven,  finding  themselves  invested. 
It  was  a  fine  sight  —  hounds  disappearing  into 
the  clump  of  trees,  sniffing  in  and  out  —  and 
actually  a  whimper  .  .  . ! 

"We've  had  a  fox  in,"  said  Pinner  with 
bated  breath.  "Perhaps  he's  in  it  now." 

"When  was  it  he  ate  your  hens?"  said 
Lord  Robert,  with  his  eye  on  Burkinshaw. 
The  little  band  of  riders,  waiting  for  a  last 

251 


THE  STRAW 

sally  into  the  dusk,  massed  themselves  on  the 
left  of  the  Tin  House  overlooking  the  hollow. 
The  shadows  were  creeping  up,  casting  a  gloom 
on  the  house  below. 

"The  night  Lauder  shot  himself,'*  said 
Stokes. 

It  was  then  that  Lord  Robert's  quick 
apprehension  jumped  at  a  preposterous  con- 
clusion. He  turned  abruptly  on  Burkinshaw. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  .  .  ."  he  exclaimed, 
"that  you  actually  - 

"I'd  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  said  Burkinshaw 
hastily.  "I've  only  just  been  informed.  .  .  . 
They  didn't  come  to  me  for  the  warrant  for 
his  arrest." 

"What?"  said  Lord  Robert.  His  yell  col- 
lected the  rest  of  them  round  him;  he  burst 
into  irreverent  laughter. 

"Tell  'em!"  he  said.  "Tell  'em,  Burkin- 
shaw. 7  can't.  It's  not  my  fault  if  people 
turn  a  serious  matter  into  a  joke.  I  resisted 
the  temptation  myself — left  it  to  the  police. 
Tokenhouse  —  poor  old  Tokenhouse,  as  harm- 
less as  a  fly !" 

Annoyed  at  this  ridicule,  Burkinshaw  could 
contain  himself  no  longer,  but  let  out  all  he 
knew.  And  after  a  bit  Lord  Robert  turned  his 
horse  and  left  them  at  it.  Hunting,  for  that 

252 


THE  STRAW 

night,  was  over.  Hounds,  having  riddled  the 
cherished  spinney  in  vain,  were  called  away 
with  due  formality,  leaving  the  Babes  full  of 
gratification  at  having  been  taken  seriously  at 
last.  It  did  not  matter  so  very  much  that  the 
premises,  having  been  drawn  in  state,  had 
been  found  tenantless.  The  great  thing  was 
that  the  spinney  had  been  recognised  as  no 
myth  but  a  real  fact. 

Tokenhouse  had  been  watching  progress  from 
the  bottom. 

"They  are  going  on  to  Cream  Gorse,  I 
suppose  ?"  he  said. 

"No,  I  think  they  are  going  home,"  said 
Lord  Robert  distractedly.  "/  am,  at  any 
rate." 

He  walked  his  horse  alongside  as  they 
retreated. 

"Burkinshaw  has  gone  clean  mad,"  he 
said.  "  He  has  been  electrifying  us  up  there  -L- 
didn't  you  hear  us  hooting? — with  a  cock-and- 
bull  story  rather  more  absurd  than  anything 
I  ever  heard  about  you  - 

"Oh,  was  he?"  said  Tokenhouse  coolly. 
"I  thought  he  was  trying  to  keep  it  to  himself. 
There's  a  fine  scarecrow." 

"It's  a  very  well-dressed  one,"  said  Lord 
253 


THE  STRAW 

Robert,  casting  a  wandering  eye  in  its  direc- 
tion. 

"The  Babes  put  it  up  to  guard  their  wheat," 
said  Tokenhouse,  "and  to  remind  them  of 
their  man  Johnson.  He  left  in  a  hurry  and 
forgot  to  pack  the  old  dress  coat  he  wore  to 
keep  up  his  dignity.  They  thought  it  would 
please  the  crows." 

They  had  passed  the  object  of  his  attention, 
and  he  resumed  consideration  of  his  com- 
panion's distracted  air.  His  tone  was  that  of 
one  slightly  amused  at  another  man's  pre- 
dicament. 

"I  had  rather  a  fancy  to  come  out  hunting 
myself  this  morning,"  he  said;  "not  in  my 
gig,  you  know,  but  in  the  old  style  —  on  horse- 
back. However,  I  thought  I  had  better  not  be 
out  of  the  way  —  give  no  unnecessary  trouble 
to  the  police." 

"Then  you  know "  said  Lord  Robert. 

"One  can't  help  having  an  inkling  of  what 
is  going  on,"  said  Tokenhouse.  "  I  hope  you'll 
do  all  you  can  to  assist  the  course  of  —  justice. 
For  example,  I  don't  wish  anybody  to  minimise 
that  row  I  had  with  Lauder  at  the  Point-to- 
Point.  It  provides  a  motive." 

"But   you   can't    possibly   want said 

Lord  Robert,  betraying  his  stupefaction. 
254 


THE  STRAW 

Tokenhouse  bent  to  unlatch  the  gate  at  the 
back  of  the  house,  holding  it  open  for  the 
other  to  pass  through;  and  as  he  straightened 
himself  he  smiled. 

"You  think  I  have  queer  tastes?"  he  said. 
"So  I  have.  I  should  like  to  see  the  thing 
through  properly.  Say  it's  my  sporting  in- 
stinct. One  doesn't  often  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  learning  what  it  feels  like  to  be  the 
fox.  It's  about  the  only  thing  I  have  not 
tried,  and  I'd  like  my  experiences  to  be  com- 
plete." 

Lord  Robert  was  consumed  with  admiration 
at  so  eccentric  a  point  of  view,  one  after  his 
own  heart,  but  certainly  transcending  any- 
thing he  was  capable  of  himself. 

"I  won't  ask  you  to  come  in,"  said  Token- 
house,  stopping  at  the  door.  "To  tell  you  the 
truth,  I'm  expecting  —  other  visitors,  and  I 
am  afraid  I  shall  have  to  devote  all  my  atten- 
tion to  them." 

Lord  Robert  went  on  his  way,  meeting  two 
men  in  a  high,  black  dog-cart,  who  saluted  him 
gravely  as  they  drove  past.  He  was  still  in- 
clined to  look  upon  this  development  as  a 
huge  joke.  But  that  it  should  have  been  played 
upon  Tokenhouse,  of  all  people  —  the  last 

person  in  the  world ! 

255 


THE  STRAW 

As  Tokenhouse  went  into  the  house  he  had 
a  glimpse  of  Mrs.  Crow  peeping  at  him,  with 
her  apron  ready  to  throw  over  her  face.  She 
too,  it  seemed,  had  an  inkling.  And  Gay, 
hearing  his  step,  came  out  of  the  library, 
walking  a  little  stiffly,  his  face  blank  with  con- 
sternation. 

"Come  in  here  for  God's  sake,"  he  said 
hoarsely.  "I've  heard  a  most  awful  rumour." 

He  was  not  taking  it  lightly.  He  almost 
dragged  Tokenhouse  into  the  library  and  shut 
the  door  upon  them.  On  the  road  there  was 
a  noise  of  wheels. 

"One  or  two  people  have  been  good  enough 
to  warn  me,"  said  Tokenhouse.  "You're  not 
going  to  propose  that  I  should  hide  myself 
in  a  cupboard  ?  Don't  worry,  Gay.  I  am 
not  at  all  surprised." 

He  sat  down  comfortably  by  the  fire. 

But  Gay  went  on  raging.  There  was  no 
doubt  of  him  in  his  face  —  only  incredulous 
anger. 

"Why  don't  they  charge  me?"  he  said. 
"Why  should  it  be  you?  What  have  the 
fools  got  against  you  ? " 

"I  believe  they  have  got  a  witness  who  saw 
me  out  in  the  fields  that  night,"  said  Token- 
house. 

256 


THE  STRAW 

"But  I  was  out  too;  I'll  tell  them  so. 
I'll  tell  them  you  were  looking  for  me,"  said 
Gay. 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said 
Tokenhouse.  "Look  here,  Gay,  this  is  my 
affair,  my  private  —  shall  we  say  experiment  ? 
The  man  they  have  didn't  see  you.  He  saw 
me." 

"But  I'll  swear  I  was  there!"  said  Gay. 

Tokenhouse  laughed  softly  at  his  heat. 

"You  couldn't  do  much,"  he  said,  "with- 
out my  corroboration.  If  you  remember, 
you  were  hazy  on  the  subject.  How  do  you 
know  you  didn't  dream  it  all  ?  Don't  spoil 
my  case.  I  may  be  a  little  odd,  but  I 
am  not  altogether  a  fool.  I  won't  have  in- 
cautious friends  ruining  my  plans  by  their 
rash  declarations.  I'll  let  you  come  forward 
later  on  and  say  whatever  you  have  a  mind  to. 
Of  course,  I  shall  have  a  decent  lawyer  to 
defend  me,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

He  paused,  looking  on  with  an  air  of  inter- 
ested detachment  at  the  younger  man's  agita- 
tion. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  "that  I  couldn't  con- 
vince you  that  this  business  is  an  unlooked- 
for  break  in  the  monotony  of  my  —  existence. 
I  had  grown  accustomed  to  thinking  my  life 
s  357 


THE  STRAW 

was  practically  over,  but  latterly Well, 

never  mind !  My  one  anxiety  is  that  the 
Bench  may  pooh-pooh  the  charge  and  refuse 
to  commit  me  for  trial.  But  I  don't  think 
they'll  dare  to  do  that.  I  understand  that 
the  police  have  discovered  that  the  revolver 
in  their  possession  belongs  to  me." 

Gay  went  quickly  across  the  room;  hunted 
in  a  cupboard  among  the  bookshelves,  and 
turned  round  speechless. 

"Yes,"  said  Tokenhouse,  "it's  gone.  Don't 
look  so  tragic.  Careless  of  me,  was  it  not  ? " 

"Who  took  it?"  said  Gay,  like  a  man 
confounded. 

Tokenhouse  looked  at  him,  a  quiet,  long 
look  that  for  the  moment  lost  its  sarcastic 
humour.  He  stood  up. 

"Thanks,"  he  said. 

And  then,  in  his  old  manner,  glancing  at 
the  door: 

"Come  in,  Superintendent." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

LORD  TOKENHOUSE'S  arrest  was  the 
one  topic  at  covert-sides;  scandal  of  the 
common  sort  paled  before  it.  It  was  not 
often  that  Leicestershire  enjoyed  a  like  sensa- 
tion to  startle  the  waning  season. 

For  the  most  part  people  stoutly  took  up 
his  cause.  He  was  too  well-known,  too 
popular,  for  them  to  look  upon  such  an  out- 
landish charge  seriously,  until  the  police- 
court  proceedings  staggered  their  faith  a 
little.  What  Tokenhouse  had  said  to  Lauder 
after  the  steeplechase  in  which  he  had  made 
such  a  wonderful  return  to  his  former  self, 
was  brought  forward  as  a  proof  of  ill-feeling 
between  the  two.  The  fact  that  he  had  been 
seen  in  the  fields  that  lay  between  the  two 
houses  on  the  fatal  night,  and  the  discovery 
that  it  was  his  revolver  that  had  been 
picked  up  beside  Lauder's  body,  made  it  look 
worse. 

And  Tokenhouse  would  offer  no  explana- 
259 


THE  STRAW 

tion,  make  no  statement;  announced  simply 
that  he  intended  to  reserve  his  defence. 

"He  was  determined  to  make  them  send 
him  for  trial,"  said  Lord  Robert.  "You 
could  see  that.  Just  stood  there  and  smiled 
his  provoking  sort  of  sarcastic  smile  and  de- 
clined to  speak.  Looked  on  and  let  'em 
say  what  they  liked,  as  if  it  didn't  concern 
him." 

"They  say  he'd  been  asking  people  to  do 
him  a  service,"  put  in  Rafferty;  "asking  them 
to  brush  up  their  knowledge  of  anything  that 
might  assist  the  prosecution  and  give  them  a 
stronger  case." 

"Not  quite  that,"  said  Lord  Robert,  grin- 
ning. "But  it  sounds  like  him.  It's  his 
attitude.  He  means  them  to  go  on  and  clear 
him;  that's  what  it  is." 

"What  I  can't  make  out,"  said  RafFerty, 
"is  why  on  earth  a  man  should  go  and  drop 
his  revolver.  If  I'd  shot  anybody,  I'd  take 
good  care  I  didn't  leave  my  weapon  on  the 
spot." 

"Oh,  would  you?"  said  Lord  Robert. 
"I'll  bet  you'd  make  the  same  obliging  slips 
as  the  rest.  I  can  see  you  —  a  plausible  villain 
till  you'd  committed  your  crime,  and  then 
losing  your  head  and  chucking  down  your 

260 


THE  STRAW 

dagger  with  a  yell,  and  running  off  the  stage 
as  pale  as  any  ghost." 

"Anyhow,"  said  Rafferty  doggedly,  "Token- 
house  wouldn't  have  done  a  stupid  thing  like 
that.  It's  the  one  circumstance  that  makes 
me  sure  he  didn't  do  it." 

"Unless,"  said  Lord  Robert,  "he  did  it 
on  purpose.  I've  several  queer  theories  hum- 
ming in  my  head,  but  I'll  keep  them  to  my- 
self. It's  a  mercy  the  assizes  are  in  March 
and  we  haven't  long  to  wait.  .  .  .  There's 
that  poor  little  lady  says  Lauder  had  a  pistol 
of  some  sort  —  threatened  her  with  it.  If  he 
had,  what  became  of  it  ?" 

"Maria  thinks  she  imagined  that,"  said 
Rafferty.  "The  servants  swore  he  had  none 
to  their  knowledge.  And,  of  course,  she 
fainted." 

"Hum,"  said  Lord  Robert  drily.  "I  sup- 
pose the  magistrates  agreed  with  Maria.  I'll 
tell  you  the  one  thing  that  made  me  feel  queer, 
brought  home  to  me  that  after  all  it  was  a 
matter  of  life  and  death  —  and  you  know 
it  wasn't  easy,  with  all  of  us  cramming  in, 
chattering  as  if  the  whole  thing  was  too  ab- 
surd —  and  old  Tokenhouse  like  a  sphinx, 
nodding  to  everybody,  perfectly  unmoved  — 
was  the  sight  of  her  all  in  black,  lifting  her 

261 


THE  STRAW 

great  sad  eyes,  trying  to  answer.  It  nearly 
killed  her.  Maria  says  she  is  frightfully  ill. 
They  can't  make  her  go  through  that  again; 
they'll  have  to  take  her  evidence  on  com- 
mission." 

"I  wonder  how  much  she  knows,"  said 
Rafferty  ponderously.  Lord  Robert  cut  him 
short. 

"Don't  bring  her  into  it,"  he  said. 

Rafferty  stared  at  him.  It  seemed  to  his 
slower  mind  that  he  had  run  his  head  against 
one  of  these  theories  that  Lord  Robert  nursed, 
one  perhaps  that  he  would  fain  have  consigned 
to  limbo. 

"There  goes  Sophia,"  said  Lord  Robert 
in  his  usual  tone.  "What's  become  of  the 
infant  ?  She  hasn't  pawned  her,  has  she  ? 
I  haven't  noticed  that  imp  of  mischief  crop- 
ping up  in  awkward  spots  for  ages.  The  last 
time  I  did,  she  ran  her  pony  between  my 
horse's  legs." 

"She's  got  measles,"  said  Rafferty,  "or 
mumps  or  something." 

They  both  watched  Sophia  till  she  was  out 
of  sight.  Lord  Robert  was  the  first  to  com- 
ment. 

"I've  always  heard,"  he  said,  "that  tigers 
are  lazy  beasts;  lick  their  lips  in  the  sun  until 
262 


THE  STRAW 

the  right  minute  stirs  them  up.  I  don't  know 
how  it  is,  Rafferty,  but  she  gives  me  that  idea 
—  a  kind  of  lying  in  wait.  They  say  when 
she  heard  that  poor  old  Tokenhouse  was  taken 
up,  she  laughed." 

"Most  of  us  did,"  said  Rafferty. 

"That  was  because  we  took  it  as  a  tre- 
mendous joke,"  said  Lord  Robert.  "But  you 
don't  expect  a  woman  —  and  above  all  that 
woman  - 

Rafferty  dropped  into  meditation. 

Judy  was  ill. 

She  had  been  carried  off  by  her  cousin, 
packed  into  the  cramped  hunting  quarters 
of  Burkinshaw,  where,  at  least,  there  were  no 
painful  associations.  When  the  trial  was  over 
Maria  was  going  to  take  her  abroad.  In  the 
meanwhile  she  fussed  over  her  kindly,  if  not 
always  with  understanding,  mindful  of  the 
claims  of  cousinship.  It  was  falsely  told  of 
her  that  her  first  remark  on  hearing  of  the 
catastrophe  had  been:  "Poor  girl,  I  must 
find  her  another  husband!" 

There  was  an  undefined  misgiving  at  the 
back  of  Maria's  mind  that  she  had  not  dared 
to  share  with  her  husband,  or  indeed  breathe 
to  anybody.  Judy's  piteous  insistence  that 

263 


THE  STRAW 

Lauder  must  have  shot  himself  had  first 
shaken  her  firm  impression  that  he  had. 
Awful  possibilities  rose  up  before  her.  She 
could  not  shut  her  eyes  to  them,  remembering 
vague  anxieties  that  had  led  her  to  confide  in 
Tokenhouse  and  ask  him  to  keep  watch.  The 
arrest  of  her  confidant  himself  came  upon  her 
as  an  affair  too  ridiculous  to  be  real. 

She  had  gone  abruptly  to  Judy  with  the 
news.  Scorn  of  it  made  her  careless. 

"Whom  do  you  think  they  are  accusing  of 
shooting  poor  Bill  ?"  she  had  cried. 

And  Judy  had  sprung  up  and  faced  her,  all 
one  shiver,  her  face  as  white  as  a  sheet. 

"Oh-  — "  she  said,  not  asking  anything, 
wavering  towards  her. 

Maria  never  forgot  the  agony  in  her  look, 
nor  how  it  changed  to  an  almost  incredulous 
relief  when  she  told  her  who  it  was,  hastily 
gathering  her  in  her  arms,  feeling  as  helpless  as 
a  man,  unaccustomed  to  spending  tenderness. 

"It's  an  extraordinary  mistake,"  she  said  in 
reassuring  tones. 

"Yes,"  said  Judy  faintly.  Her  heart  was 
still  beating  irregularly  upon  Maria's  awkward 
bosom. 

That   was    before    she    broke    down,    while 
264 


THE  STRAW 

she  was  still  holding  on  to  a  strength  that  was 
illusory,  compounded  only  of  the  determina- 
tion not  to  fail,  not  to  let  herself  be  shut  into 
the  careful  silence  of  a  darkened  room,  hearing 
nothing  but  what  it  would  be  thought  wise  to 
tell  her. 

She  would  sit  in  a  little  room  at  the  back 
of  the  house  with  her  hands  interlaced, 
listening  to  the  stifled  noises  reaching  her 
from  the  one  long,  narrow  village  street  that 
was  a  thoroughfare.  Somebody  was  always 
passing,  looking  in  to  have  speech  with  Burkin- 
shaw  or  Maria,  who  liked  this  dwelling,  for 
all  its  inconveniences,  a  hundred  times  better 
than  the  big  house  that  had  now  a  history, 
and  had  been  shut  away  in  a  hollow.  The 
ordinary  life  going  on  outside  helped  some- 
how to  push  away  the  horror  that  lay  heavy 
on  her;  made  it  possible  for  her  to  breathe 
under  the  weight  of  what  had  been  and  of 
what  might  follow. 

One  afternoon,  when  the  village  had  been 
more  than  common  quiet,  and  Judy  had  heard 
no  sound  for  a  long  time  but  the  passing  of  a 
little  party  of  second  horsemen  returning  home 
and  the  rattle  of  a  cart,  there  came  all  at  once 
a  stamping  of  horses  under  the  porch  and 

265 


THE  STRAW 

a  man's  voice  asking  for  Burkinshaw,  who  was 
out. 

She  started  —  was  not  her  heart  tuned  to 
vibrate  to  that  voice  among  all  others  ?  —  and 
stood  up  unconsciously  as  if  it  called  her;  held 
her  breath  to  hear  him  speak  again,  leaning 
against  the  wall. 

Maria,  who  had  been  in  a  little  while,  and 
was  changing,  put  her  head  out  of  the  window 
into  the  street,  talking  down  to  him.  It  was 
some  message  about  a  horse  Burkinshaw  was 
buying;  he  was  to  wire  that  night  if  he  wanted 
him,  and  Gay  had  called  round  to  leave  an 
address. 

"Go  in  and  write  it  down,"  said  Maria. 
"You'll  find  telegraph  forms  somewhere  in 
the  hall." 

Judy  heard  him  swing  himself  down,  walk 
in,  while  the  man  with  him  held  his  horse. 
He  was  looking  for  the  telegraph  forms,  turn- 
ing over  a  litter  of  papers,  dropping  a  book 
-  his  spurs  clinked  as  he  bent  down  to  pick 
it  up.  So  the  trivial  matters  of  life  went  on. 
It  should  have  been  enough  to  know  him  so 
near,  to  hear  him  moving,  to  wait  for  his  voice 
again.  .  .  . 

She  was  turning  the  handle  of  the  door; 
why  she  knew  not;  parting  the  curtains  that 

266 


THE  STRAW 

hung  before  it,  and  standing  between  them, 
before  she  understood  what  she  was  doing. 
And  then  it  was  too  late  to  turn  back  and 
fall  again  into  the  dreadful  doubt  that  would 
not  last  longer  than  till  he  should  look  at 
her. 

She  would  know  then;  and  the  fear  of 
knowledge  was  all  at  once  worst  of  all. 

He  had  his  back  to  her  still;  he  was  writing 
with  the  stump  of  a  pencil,  all  he  could  find 
on  the  table,  pushed  into  a  corner  of  the  ill-lit 
hall.  She  watched  his  hand  travelling  on  the 
paper.  That  was  all  she  could  see  of  him  — 
and  the  back  of  his  head.  Perhaps  he  would 
go  without  knowing  —  without  knowing  that 
she  was  there. 

Suddenly  he  turned. 

Judy  had  never  seen  him  without  a  smile  in 
his  eyes,  but  now  he  was  gazing  at  her  as  a 
man  might  who  was  haunted  by  a  vision  of 
some  one  dear  to  him  that  had  died.  Was  it 
her  piteousness  in  this  strange  black  dress  that 
made  her  look  like  a  spirit  ?  Or  was  it  a  bar- 
rier in  his  soul  ? 

He  did  not  come  to  her,  but  stood  trans- 
fixed by  the  sight  of  her.     Perhaps  he  had  not 
known  that  she  was  in  this  house. 
267 


THE  STRAW 

"You're  ill,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  was 
hushed  and  startled.  "Are  they  taking  care 
of  you,  Judy  ?  Are  they  - 

Words  came  to  her;  not  the  words  she 
wanted. 

"I've  something  to  ask  you,"  she  heard  her- 
self breathing.  "Tell  me 

"Yes,"  said  Gay. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  he  dared  not  come  any 
nearer,  because  he  could  not  move  without 
taking  her  in  his  arms. 

She  had  dropped  her  tone  to  a  whisper  and 
paused,  conscious  of  the  horses  fidgeting  on 
the  pavement,  jingling  their  bits  at  the  door; 
of  Maria  treading  heavily  overhead  —  of  her 
weakness  without  anybody  to  lean  on. 

"Do  you  remember,"  she  said,  "once,  when 
I  was  dizzy  —  carrying  me  into  your  house  ? 
I  want  to  know  - 

Yes,  she  wanted  to  know.  Anything  rather 
than  live  with  that  haunting  recollection  of 
being  borne  in  the  arms  of  somebody  who 
cared  —  whose  strength  was  very  gentle.  If 
it  were  but  untrue  -  - ! 

"Did  you  ever  carry  me  like  that  .  .  . 
again  ?"  she  said.  Her  eyes  looked  into  his, 
too  desperate  for  shyness. 

"Never,"  said  Gay. 

268 


THE  STRAW 

"Ah,  thank  God,  thank  God!"  she  said, 
very  low,  hardly  with  her  lips. 

She  had  left  him  standing,  staring,  with 
that  grave  face.  Let  him  think  she  was  mad. 
.  .  .  He  must  not  hear  her  laughing.  .  ,  . 
And  nobody  but  Maria,  who  could  not  under- 
stand, must  find  her,  fallen  in  a  heap  too  weak, 
too  happy  in  a  strain  relaxed  to  reach  the 
sofa  where  she  wanted  to  lie  for  ever  sobbing. 
The  door  was  shut  between  them. 

"For  God's  sake  take  care  of  her." 

That  was  his  voice,  rough  with  distress, 
not  anger  nor  horror.  She  felt  as  if  she  were 
rocking  in  a  ship  on  a  wild  sea,  but  happy  — 
oh,  very  happy.  And  she  could  give  way  at 
last. 


269 


CHAPTER  XV 

P)ULL  the  rug   over  your   head.     Try  to 

XT    look  like  a  sheep,"  said  Stokes. 

Pinner,  on  all  fours,  was  doing  all  man 
could  do  with  a  baby's  bottle  to  beguile  a 
blackfaced  lamb,  tottering  defiance;  and 
Stokes  was  anxiously  pushing  it  towards  him. 

They  had  been  greatly  astonished  at  its 
arrival,  in  fact,  as  Stokes  put  it:  "The  sheep 
didn't  expect  it  either;  she  died  of  fright;" 
but  they  boldly  determined  to  bring  it  up  by 
hand.  They  took  it  into  the  Tin  House  and  put 
it  down  by  the  fire,  and  Pinner  had  gone  down 
to  Gay's  house  and  borrowed  a  sheepskin  rug, 
while  Stokes  rode  into  town  and  stolidly  pur- 
chased a  feeding-bottle.  Only  the  ungrateful 
little  beast  did  not  realise  their  intentions 
and  butted  feebly,  wobbling  on  its  unsteady 
legs,  making  a  shrill  and  angry  cry  that  seemed 
to  ask  deliverance  from  these  monsters. 

It  was  Pinner  who  had  the  good  idea  that 
saved  them  from  defeat.  He  suddenly  dipped 

270 


THE  STRAW 

his  finger  in  the  milk  and  stuck  it  into    the 
lamb's  open  mouth.     It  sucked  fiercely. 

"Hooray!"  he  said.  "That's  it.  The 
poor  little  beggar  hates  the  taste  of  india- 
rubber.  Let  him  sit  down,  Stokes;  he  won't 
buck  into  the  fender." 

He  sat  back  on  his  heels  indulging  the  lamb 
with  a  milky  forefinger.  "  It's  rather  a  slow  way 
of  getting  your  dinner,"  he  said.  "I  may  as 
well  throw  the  rug  off;  I  believe  he  likes  me 
best  as  I  am.  Who'd  have  thought  it  ?" 

"He  doesn't  get  much,"  said  Stokes,  stoop- 
ing over  him  with  his  hands  on  his  knees. 

"Not  yet,  but  I'll  educate  him  up  to  a 
spoon.  It's  a  great  thing,  establishing  confi- 
dence between  us,"  said  Pinner.  "Don't  you 
be  sniffy.  I'm  the  heaven-born  farmer.  Rule 
of  thumb  versus  your  old  scientific  methods. 
He  thinks  I'm  his  mother,  bless  him." 

"Your  face  is  black  enough,"  said  Stokes, 
who  had  been  at  the  trouble  of  getting  the 
despised  infantine  appliance,  and  brooking 
some  derision  as  he  dashed  from  shop  to  shop. 

"I  dare  say  it  is,"  said  Pinner.  "I  meant 
to  wash  it,  but  I  couldn't  lay  hands  on  a  towel. 
Never  mind,  it's  clean  soot.  I  was  seeing  to 
the  stove.  Isn't  it  splendid  to  feel  you  can 
do  as  you  like  ?  No  Johnson." 

271 


THE  STRAW 

"We'll  have  to  have  a  spring-cleaning 
though,"  said  Stokes.  "I  can't  find  any- 
thing when  I  want  it  except  the  aunt's  photo- 
graph. When  I'm  sweeping,  it  always  tumbles 
on  my  head." 

"I  hope  she  doesn't  come  down  on  us  in  the 
body,"  said  Pinner  fervently,  reaching  out 
and  tapping  the  wooden  leg  of  the  table  to 
avert  the  omen.  "  She'll  put  an  end  to  this 
life  of  unbridled  ease.  I've  not  had  a  collar 
on  in  private  since  Johnson  left.  Here, 
mister,  you'll  choke  yourself;  don't  be  greedy. 
I  say,  how  soon  do  you  think  we  could  wean 
him  ?  We  might  put  a  ribbon  round  his  neck 
and  send  him  up  to  her  for  a  pet.  He'd  look 
neat  trotting  at  her  skirts  in  the  park." 

Somehow  or  other,  the  lamb  had  imbibed 
enough  sustenance  to  make  it  sleepy.  It  shut  its 
eyes  and  allowed  Pinner  to  tuck  it  in  a  blanket. 
He  rubbed  it  between  its  ears,  a  parting  caress; 
and  stood  back  to  gaze  at  it,  gratified. 

"He  looks  quite  at  home,"  he  said.  "The 
tide  is  turning.  We'll  make  our  fortunes  yet. 
I'll  go  down  and  tell  Gay." 

"  I'll  come  with  you,"  said  his  partner. 

"We  can't  leave  the  animal  to  keep 
house " 

"  Oh,  he's  too  young  to  get  into  mischief. 
272 


THE  STRAW 

He    won't    play   with    matches,"    said    Stokes 
superiorly,  and  together  they  set  off. 

They  were  continually  making  excuses  to 
look  up  their  neighbour,  more  from  a  vague 
impulse  of  loyalty  than  their  constant  need 
of  advice.  They  had  thrilled  to  the  marrow 
when  he  had  stood  in  the  witness-box  and 
declared  that  Tokenhouse  had  been  in  search 
of  him  that  night;  when,  impetuous  and  un- 
guarded, he  had  poured  out  his  wild  state- 
ment of  half-delirious  wandering.  In  cross- 
examination  he  had  been  driven  to  admit 
that  he  had  not  remembered  much  until  the 
prisoner  confirmed  his  hazy  recollection,  and 
his  evidence,  without  helping  his  friend  as 
much  as  he  had  imagined,  had  been  damaging 
to  himself.  It  was  Tokenhouse  who  was  on 
his  trial,  but  it  had  been  at  Gay  that  the 
murmuring  listeners  looked  askance.  There 
were  not  wanting  those  who  recalled  his 
passage  at  arms  with  Lauder,  his  hot  cham- 
pionship of  Lauder's  wife.  The  man  at 
Pinner's  elbow  had  muttered  words  about 
people  in  the  same  house  having  access  to 
the  same  places.  It  had  been  proved  that 
Gay's  lodger  kept  his  revolvers  in  the  library, 
where  one  of  them  had  been  found  in  its  case, 
while  the  other  had  been  picked  up  beside 
T  273 


THE  STRAW 

the  man  who  had  been  shot,  with  three 
chambers  empty.  .  .  .  The  inference  was 
damning,  and  Pinner  had  dug  that  elbow  into 
him  and  glared  his  indignation,  miserably 
conscious  that  this  evil  speaker  was  not  the 
only  one.  The  Babes  at  least  were  staunch. 

They  marched  into  his  house  whistling, 
affecting  a  great  gaiety.  Mrs.  Crow,  with 
the  distraught  air  that  she  held  to  be  respectful 
to  these  troublous  times,  put  her  head  out 
of  the  kitchen  and,  seeing  who  it  was,  sighed 
and  set  down  their  plates  to  warm.  The 
thing  she  felt  most,  poor  woman,  was  not 
Lauder's  untimely  end,  nor  the  fearful  charge 
that  hung  over  her  master's  lodger  —  but  her 
own  unfortunate  heavy  slumbers  that  had 
prevented  her  from  witnessing  anything.  She 
had  missed  the  distinguished  opportunity  of 
her  life,  and  disappointment  made  her  tart. 
She  took  a  gloomy  view  of  the  case,  as  vio- 
lently as  possible  opposed  to  that  of  her 
husband,  whose  veneration  of  the  poor  gentle- 
man had  always  been  vexation  in  her  ears. 

Gay  looked  up  from  his  solitary  fireside  at  the 
entrance  of  his  adherents. 

"  Have  you  come  to  have  dinner  with  me  ? " 
he  said.     The  Babes  assented. 
274 


THE  STRAW 

They  were  dying  to  discuss  the  thing  that 
was  in  all  their  minds,  but  dared  not  begin. 
It  lay  too  dark,  too  troubled,  on  Gay's  brow. 

Instead,  they  plunged  into  agriculture,  dis- 
cussions about  soils  and  cattle  and  microbes, 
thte  unassimilated  fare  of  their  studies,  peril- 
ously mixed.  Stokes  was  the  theorist,  Pinner 
the  one  who  lived  to  upset  his  theories  by 
putting  them,  on  a  limited  scale,  into  practice. 
The  one  would  lay  down  the  law  with  the 
authority  of  the  printed  book,  and  the  other 
bring  out  its  artless  refutation,  always  final  — 
"and  then  we  tried  it!" 

But  at  last  the  time  came  when  silence  fell 
on  their  voluble,  half-triumphant,  half-rueful 
voices,  and  Gay  lifted  his  glass. 

"We'll  drink  to  Lord  Tokenhouse,"  he  said 
abruptly. 

"  He's  sure  to  get  off,  isn't  he  ? "  said  Pinner 
with  bated  breath. 

The  house  was  empty  for  want  of  its  quieter 
inmate.  Stokes  glanced  up  suddenly  as  if 
he  expected  to  see  him,  mildly  contemptuous, 
in  the  doorway. 

"They'll  never  find  him  guilty,"  he  said 
with  conviction. 

"God  forbid,"  said  Gay. 

"Why  wouldn't  he  say  a  word  himself?" 
275 


THE  STRAW 

said  Pinner.  "Is  it  true  he  said  it  was  too 
undignified,  that  he  didn't  choose  to  let  him- 
self be  bullied  by  a  pack  of  lawyers?" 

"I  think  he  prefers  to  look  on,"  said  Gay. 

"Yes.  He  makes  you  feel  as  if  it  was  a  sort 
of  game,"  said  Pinner  admiringly.  "As  if 
he  wouldn't  play  because  he  was  too  strong 
for  them.  A  little  bored,  awfully  conde- 
scending. He's  wonderful.  What  do  you 
think  he  has  got  up  his  sleeve?" 

Gay  did  not  answer.  He  was  bewildered 
himself,  although  long  association  with  his 
lodger  had  taught  him  something  of  his  un- 
usual attitude  towards  the  serious  things  of 
life.  It  was  strange  to  him  that  any  man 
could  maintain  his  philosophic  demeanour 
in  the  face  of  a  terrible  charge  that  changed 
him  from  a  spectator  into  an  actor.  Token- 
house,  the  humorous  observer  of  other  men, 
whose  tolerant  comprehension  glanced  over 
their  foibles,  their  passions,  food  for  his  own 
unexcited  contemplation  —  how  was  it  possible 
that  he  of  all  men  should  be  standing  in  the 
dock  ?  To  the  other  man,  hot-blooded, 
raging  in  his  perplexity,  it  was  inconceiv- 
able that  he  should  continue  to  wear  a  cool 
front,  to  look  upon  this  too  as  a  subtle  joke. 

Why,  as  Gay  himself  had  gone  into  the 
276 


THE  STRAW 

witness-box,  all  eyes  turned  on  him,  all  the 
crowd  listening  —  he  had  felt  an  emotion 
that  was  more  like  fear  than  anything  he  had 
known.  It  came  back  to  him;  a  kind  of 
sickness.  To  get  up  and  fight,  to  draw  a 
hard  breath  and  strike  out  for  a  friend  —  how 
simple !  But  to  be  shut  in,  to  stand  a  mark 
for  all  men  with  his  hands  tied ! 

He  felt  again  that  queer  sensation  of  being 
trapped.  He  heard  his  impetuous  words 
fall  upon  utter  silence;  and  then  a  thin, 
deliberate  voice  cutting  in,  twisting  what  he 
had  said  till  the  sense  was  unlike  his  own, 
entangling  him  in  some  dimly  apprehended  net. 
He  felt  his  throat  dry,  his  heart  pumping 
strangely.  What  was  the  sinister  suggestion 
in  the  truth  as  he  knew  it  ?  What  was  the 
inquisitor  driving  at  ?  How  if  he  and  Token- 
house  had  changed  places,  how  if  it  had  been 
he  who,  instead  of  a  voluntary  witness,  had 
been  on  trial  for  his  life  ?  The  thought  of  it 
gripped  him  hard. 

No;  he  could  not  imitate  the  prisoner's 
stoicism.  If  it  had  been  his  lot ! 

"You  are  looking  grim,"  said  Pinner. 
"Am  I?"  he  said,  rousing  himself  to  shake 
off  a  little  of  the  trouble  in  his  mind.     "You 

277 


THE  STRAW 

don't  know  what  I  had  to  put  up  with  yester- 
day" (yes,  better  try  and  lift  the  oppressing 
cloud  by  a  pretence  of  lightness).  "Lord 
Robert  and  I  were  in  here  discussing  —  things, 
when  he  looked  out  of  window  and  said : 
'So  that's  how  Leicester  is  spending  its 
Sunday  afternoons.'  And  there  was  a  brake 
full  of  boot-hands,  drawn  up  in  the  road,  the 
lot  staring  up  at  us,  devouring  sandwiches  — 
as  if  my  house  was  the  Tower  of  London." 

"Oh,  I  say,  what  did  you  do  to  them?" 
said  Pinner,  in  delighted  expectation. 

"Lost  my  temper,"  said  Gay.  "Threw 
up  the  window  and  asked  them  what  the 
devil  they  wanted  here.  And  the  driver,  an 
impudent  rascal  who  looked  like  a  bit  of 
leather,  said  they  were  visiting  places  of  in- 
terest in  the  neighbourhood,  and  pointed  to 
the  house  with  his  whip.  I  told  him  if  he 
didn't  move  on  I'd  come  out  and  thrash  him." 

"Ah-    -!"  said  Pinner. 

Gay's  disgust  submitted  to  the  absurdity 
of  the  reminiscence.  He  laughed  bitterly. 

"Lord  Robert  held  me  down,"  he  said. 
"Clutched  me  and  showed  me  a  photographer 
taking  aim.  The  other  villain  was  inciting 
me  to  come  on,  with  an  eye  to  the  sale  of  his 
picture  postcards." 

278 


THE  STRAW 

The  Babes  giggled  convulsively. 

"It's  almost  a  pity "  said  Stokes,  and 

choked. 

"Yes,  that's  what  Lord  Robert  said.  That 
he  deserved  a  medal  for  putting  friendship 
first,"  said  Gay.  "If  I  hadn't  been  in  such 
a  towering  rage,  he'd  have  suggested  pitching 
them  a  yarn  full  of  horrors  and  asking  sixpence 
each  for  showing  them  over  the  house.  He's 
capable  of  acting  showman:  'This  is  the 
bed  the  gentleman  slept  in.  This  is  the 

notorious  back  door But  to  see  these 

common  brutes  with  their  unwinking  stare ! 

Well,  it's  life.  You  can  stand  the  big  blows; 
it's  the  ridiculous  little  smacks  that  drive 
things  home  to  you  and  make  you  lose  self- 
control." 

"We'd  better  go,"  said  Stokes,  looking  at 
the  clock,  and  Gay  did  not  try  to  keep  them. 
Their  company  was  not  much  more  exacting 
than  the  friendliness  of  a  dog,  and  there  was 
distraction  in  their  babble  —  but  it  didn't 
make  a  great  difference.  He  scarcely  missed 
them  when  they  went  out. 

Clear   of  the    house   they   peered   with    fas- 
cinated awe  into  the  surrounding  darkness. 
"You    and     I     sleeping    like    logs!"     said 
279 


THE  STRAW 

Pinner  lamentably,  "when  all  that  was  going 
on." 

"And  that  old  hypocrite  Ditcher  stealing 
our  hens-  '  said  Stokes.  "What  did  he 
pretend  in  court  ?  That  he  was  hunting  for 
a  hedgehog  ?" 

"Yes.  Swore  that  a  fellow  who  was  break- 
ing in  two  young  horses  had  asked  him  to  get 
him  a  hedgehog  skin  to  keep  'em  from  rubbing 
against  the  pole.  Wasn't  a  bit  abashed  when 
they  asked  him  if  it  had  feathers." 

"What  tickles  me,"  said  Stokes,  "is  that 
born  idiot  Johnson  bolting  up  the  hill  as 
ignorant  as  a  fish.  He  might  just  as  well  have 
been  a  bit  later  or  earlier  or  whatever  it  was, 
and  looked  about  him." 

They  halted.  There  was  a  weird  interest 
in  the  gloom;  it  caught  their  imagination, 
prickled  in  their  hair  as  they  tracked  out  the 
probable  scene  of  Gay's  midnight  vagary;  the 
little  distance  he  had  staggered  according  to  his 
own  unsupported  story  —  and  marked  the  stile 
where  the  witness  had  blundered  into  Token- 
house,  abroad  so  late.  Far  in  the  deeper 
darkness  lay  that  house  shadowed  by  its  history. 
The  Babes  moved  instinctively  closer  to  each 
other. 

All  at  once  Pinner  burst  into  an  hysterical 
280 


THE  STRAW 

fit  of  laughter,  pointing  to  the  black  shape 
presiding,  with  the  same  air  of  reproachful 
dignity  that  had  distinguished  the  unlamented 
Johnson,  over  their  field  of  wheat. 

"I  was  thinking,"  he  said,  "if  he  saw  him- 
self planted  out  there  all  night,  he'd  shudder 
in  his  skin." 


381 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IT  was  Sophia  Bland  who  furnished  the 
surprise  of  the  trial. 

When  she  was  called  as  a  witness  the  prisoner 
leaned  forward,  slightly  smiling,  but  her 
expression  was  inscrutable,  although  she  gave 
him  a  little  nod. 

"And  you  couldn't  have  guessed,"  said 
Lord  Robert  with  relish,  "whether  she  meant 
to  bless  or  curse.  Of  course,  Tokenhouse  and 
his  counsel  must  have  known  all  about  it,  but 
none  of  us  had  the  faintest  notion.  And, 
though  she's  lazy,  there's  an  unexpectedness 
about  Sophia.  She  might  have  come  out 
with  anything  under  the  sun  by  the  look 
of  her." 

What  she  had  to  say  was  brief.  Her  little 
girl  had  carried  off  the  revolver  now  in  the 
hands  of  the  prosecution  —  one  that  Token- 
house  had  lately  been  using  and  had  pre- 
sumably left  out  within  reach  of  wicked  little 
hands.  Lauder  had  got  it  from  her.  She 
282 


THE  STRAW 

had  asked  him  to  give  it  back  to  its  owner, 
and  he  had  said  carelessly  that  there  was  no 
hurry.  The  last  she  had  seen  of  it  had  been 
in  his  possession. 

Gay,  sitting  back  in  court,  took  a  deep 
breath. 

"What  has  she  been  playing  for?"  sard 
Lord  Robert.  "Keeping  it  to  herself  all  this 
time,  never  giving  a  hint,  and  all  of  us  racking 
our  brains  over  the  one  thing  that  looked  - 
well,  looked  —  you  know !  D'you  suppose 
that  Tokenhouse  asked  her  to  hold  her  peace, 
or  was  it  pure  devilry  ?  If  she'd  gone  to  the 
police  and  told  them  at  the  beginning  they'd 
never  have  had  the  impertinence  to  go  on. 
Didn't  he  miss  the  thing?" 

"What?  No,"  said  Gay.  "He  mightn't 
look  for  it  till  he  wanted  it.  I  don't  know 
whether  he  knew  or  not." 

"Well,  it  was  the  one  thing  that  stuck  in 
my  throat,"  said  Lord  Robert.  "It  looked 
queer,  finding  it  where  it  was.  Oh,  well, 
if  Sophia  wanted  to  be  dramatic,  she's  got  her 
wish.  You  hear  them  —  Applause  in  court! 

What  with  your  imprudent "  he  dwelt  a 

little  on  the  word  —  "revelations,  and  this 
story  of  Sophia's,  the  prosecution  haven't  a 
leg  to  stand  on.  Who  says  now  that  Lauder 

283 


THE  STRAW 

didn't  shoot  himself?  We'll  give  old  Token- 
house  a  reception  when  he  comes  out!" 

"I'd  like  to  stand  up  and  shout  myself 
hoarse,"  said  Gay. 

"Wait  a  bit,"  said  Lord  Robert. 

But  he  felt  he  could  understand  the  other 
man's  agitation.  Tokenhouse  had  taken  no 
man  into  his  counsels,  and  that  incident  of  the 
revolver  had  seemed  inexplicable.  Without 
disloyalty  a  man  might  be  excused  extrava- 
gant thankfulness  on  hearing  its  explanation. 

Surely  there  could  be  no  doubt  now  in  the 
minds  of  men  that  Lauder  had  frightened 
his  wife  with  this  weapon  —  no  figment  of  a 
girl's  overwrought  imagination  —  and  after- 
wards shot  himself.  Surely  —  and  still  there 
might  always  be  a  few  who  would  build  up 
an  injurious  scandal  from  the  ruins  of  this 
preposterous  charge,  who,  daunted  by  the 
popular  scorn,  would  exonerate  Tokenhouse  to 
fix  on  Gay.  They  would  rake  up  the  damn- 
ing story  of  his  scene  with  Lauder  down  by 
the  brook  below  Melton  Spinney,  of  his  hot- 
headed threat.  And  they  would  put  down 
Tokenhouse's  silence  to  no  oddity  of  his  own, 
but  to  the  desire  not  to  implicate  his  friend. 
Perhaps  —  Lord  Robert  whistled  softly  as  the 
idea  struck  him  —  it  was  some  such  idea  that 
284 


THE  STRAW 

had  possessed  Sophia  Bland.  Supposing  she 
had  fancied  the  revolver  had  been  returned; 
supposing  she  had  held  back  as  long  as  she 
could  to  force  a  man  in  peril  of  his  life  to 

weaken  and  speak  out ? 

He  bent  forward  with  his  hands  on  his 
knees,  his  glass  screwed  in  his  eye,  watching 
her  as  she  tasted  her  dramatic  moment.  No, 
the  thought  was  untenable.  She  was  simply 
a  vain,  heartless,  and  stupid  woman.  But  it 
was  odd  that  she,  with  that  knowledge  in  her 
possession,  had  all  along  refused  to  admit  that 
Lauder  had  killed  himself — she  who  knew 
his  recklessness  better  than  any  other.  Strange 
instance  of  the  illogical  instinct  —  no,  not 
instinct,  the  gods  forbid !  —  that  was  not  the 
word ;  the  illogical  stubbornness  of  woman. 

Tokenhouse's   acquittal  was   popular. 

His  arm  was  stiff  with  shaking  hands  before 
he  was  seized  upon  by  Gay  and  got  away  from 
the  triumphing  of  his  friends.  The  jury  had 
not  taken  long  to  consider  their  verdict; 
there  had  been  no  dragging  hours  of  doubt 
after  the  judge  had  summed  up  and  left  the 
case  in  their  hands. 

"We'll  get  in  by  dinner-time,"  said  Gay. 
"I've  asked  everybody  to  keep  away.  You 

285 


THE  STRAW 

must  be  dead  tired.     I'll  let  them  all  inundate 
you  to-morrow." 

"I  feel  rather  dissipated,"  said  Token- 
house.  "Rather  as  if  I  had  been  attending 
a  play  in  China;  an  entertainment  that  palls 
on  you  day  after  day.  And  public  sympathy 
is  a  trifle  wearing.  I  shall  be  glad  to  sink  into 
obscurity." 

He  dropped  naturally  into  his  old  place  in 
the  house;  accepted  Crow's  assiduous  valeting 
with  the  same  understanding  twinkle  that  sig- 
nalised his  appreciation  of  the  fearful  interest 
betrayed  by  Mrs.  Crow. 

"It  is  pleasant  to  be  back,"  he  said,  as  he 
settled  himself  in  his  comfortable,  shabby 
chair.  "Has  that  good  woman  held  her  hand 
and  spared  to  sweep  everything  I  had  touched 
into  a  bonfire  ?  I  rather  expected  to  find  all 
traces  of  my  occupation  dusted  out  of  the 
house." 

Gay  smiled.  It  was  good  to  see  him  sitting 
there  unaltered,  fastidiously  rolling  his  ciga- 
rette. 

"I  think  Crow  promised  terrible  things 
if  she  laid  a  finger  on  the  library,"  he  said. 
"In  his  humble  way  he  wanted  you  to  step 
into  your  old  place  and  find  it  untouched, 
down  to  that  box  of  matches." 

286 


THE  STRAW 

"Ah,"  said  Tokenhouse,  "imitating  his 
politeness,  are  you  postponing  discussion  of 
past  events,  or  is  there  anything  you  would 
like  to  ask?" 

"No,"  said  Gay,  but  his  face  changed; 
he  looked  down.  "Nothing." 

"Go  on,"  said  Tokenhouse  quietly. 

"I  won't  do  it,"  said  Gay.  "I'll  not  be 
less  —  polite  than  the  Crows.  You  know  best 
why  you  tried  to  make  me  hold  my  tongue 
when  there  was  already  a  witness  who  had 
seen  you  out  that  night,  why  you  didn't  speak 
out  yourself." 

Tokenhouse  looked  at  him  thoughtfully. 

"I'm  afraid,"  he  said,  "you'd  hardly  under- 
stand my  motives.  Put  it  down  to  my  eccen- 
tricity. Say  to  yourself:  'the  poor  old  chap 
is  cracked,  he  can't  behave  like  ordinary 
people.'  Or  conclude  that  I  wanted  to  clear 
myself  of  a  ridiculous  suspicion  without  bring- 
ing anybody  else  into  it.  It's  a  whim  of  mine 
to  reserve  my  explanation." 

He  looked  round  the  room,  musing  on  its 
familiar  and  comfortable  disorder. 

"Pity,"  he  said,  half  to  himself.  "I  had 
got  accustomed  to  this  peaceable  existence. 
I  shall  be  sorry  to  turn  out,  Gay." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  said  Gay,  startled. 
287 


THE  STRAW 

"An  inward  impulse  to  migration,"  said 
Tokenhouse.  "You'll  have  to  look  out  for 
another  lodger.  I  have  a  curiosity  to  go  up 
and  down  the  world  for  a  bit.  It  may  be  a 
temporary  restlessness.  I  may  drift  back  to 
my  old  haunts  like  the  birds,  later  on." 

He  blew  a  thin  spiral  of  smoke  into  the 
air  and  watched  it  fading  into  nothing,  then 
spoke  more  gravely. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  said.  "What's 
the  trouble  with  you  ?" 

Gay  tried  no  dissimulation.  He  met  the 
point-blank  interrogation  with  a  straight  an- 
swer. Since  Tokenhouse  could  read  so  much, 
could  see  what  lay  under  his  real  gladness  in 
the  other  man's  triumphant  return  to  his 
roof,  let  him  know.  .  .  .  He  looked  up, 
haggard. 

"She  thinks  I  did  it,"  he  said. 

"Sbtt'\ 

"Yes,"  said  Gay. 

Tokenhouse  did  not  ask  more.  There  was 
only  one  woman  who  could  bring  that  look  to 
the  other's  face. 

"That's  a  mad  thought  of  yours,"  he  said. 

"I  saw  her,"  said  Gay.  "She  —  it  was  an 
accident.  I  had  called  at  Burkinshaw's  on 
some  business.  And  she  came  —  she  asked 

288 


THE  STRAW 

me She  thought  it  was  I  who  had  carried 

her  upstairs  that  night.  And  if  she  thought 
that,  Tokenhouse  - 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  follows,"  said  Tokenhouse 
slowly.  "Did  she  tell  you  why?" 

"No,"  said  Gay.  "I  didn't  understand 
at  the  time.  I  was  so  knocked  over  by  the 
sight  of  her,  so  white,  so  strange  -  —  Only 
afterwards,  when  I'd  lost  her  face,  her  words 
came  back  to  me.  What  sort  of  a  cur  must 
she  think  me,  Tokenhouse,  letting  you " 

Tokenhouse  was  looking  at  him  queerly. 

"Don't  take  it  hard,"  he  said.  "She  has 
had  a  bad  time.  Forgive  her  a  few  strange 
fancies.  Is  Maria  looking  after  her?" 

"Yes,"  said  Gay.  "They  are  going  to 
take  her  away  with  them  for  the  summer. 
Tokenhouse,  you  don't  see  the  horror  of  it. 
She  told  Maria  once  it  could  not  have  been 
her  husband  who  carried  her  to  her  room, 
that  it  was  somebody  who  cared  for  her.  It 
was  when  she  was  so  ill  that  she  didn't  know 
what  she  was  saying.  But  who  cared  for  her 
but  I  -  -  ?  That  she  should  think  me  a 
murderer!" 

"Oh,  she  said  that,  did  she?"  said  Token- 
house.  "Poor  child,  poor  unhappy  child. 
She  thought  it  was  somebody  who  cared  for 
u  289 


THE  STRAW 

her,  because  her  husband  had  never  been 
gentle  to  her  before;  and  so  she  pitched  on 
you  ?  Don't  look  so  desperate,  Gay.  The 
whole  world  knows  your  crippled  condition, 
and  even  taking  for  granted  your  attempt  at 
an  expedition,  it  was  agony  to  you  to  lift 
your  arm.  Let  her  get  over  the  shock  and 
she'll  think  of  that.  Don't  you  see  it  was 
because  you  were  the  one  person  she  imagined 
would  come  to  her  help  that  she  had  that 
wild  idea  ?  No,  I  should  not  despair." 

It  seemed  to  the  other  man  as  if  Tokenhouse 
were  amused  at  something,  some  point  that 
had  escaped  Gay's  attention;  and  also  as  if 
he  were  hesitating;  coming  to  some  decision. 
But  he  continued  carelessly. 

"It  didn't  strike  you,"  he  said,  "that  she 
might  perhaps  not  identify  the  person  who 
lifted  her  after  she  had  fainted  with  the  one 
who  fired  the  fatal  shot  ?  I  am  only  throw- 
ing out  a  suggestion.  Lauder  might  have 
shot  himself,  or  let  us  say,  though  it  sounds 
unlikely,  been  shot,  before  anybody  came. 
And  someone  might  have  found  her  lying 
beside  him  unconscious  and  tried  to  spare 
her  the  shock  of  coming  to  herself  where  she 
was.  How  do  you  know  that  was  not  her  idea 
when  she  thought  of  you  ?" 

290 


THE  STRAW 

"  Because,"  said  Gay,  "when  I  said  she 
was  mistaken  she  said-  'Thank  God!" 

Tokenhouse  had  treated  his  broken  con- 
fidence as  if  it  were  hardly  worth  taking  in 
earnest  until  then. 

"You  fool!"  he  said.  "She  believed  you 
-  and  you  go  brooding  over  that." 

His  voice  was  sharp  with  anger  and  an  echo 
of  relief. 

"Try  to  be  reasonable,"  he  said,  restored 
again  to  his  philosophic  calm.  "Give  her  a 
little  time  to  blot  out  this,  but  don't  let  it 
come  between  you.  Put  her  first.  If  you 
think  you  can  make  it  up  to  her  better  than 
another  man,  don't  hang  back.  Why  should 
you  ?  You  haven't  stood  in  the  dock  charged 
with  shooting  a  man  who  deserved  no  less." 

He  looked  whimsically  across  at  Gay,  put- 
ting down  seriousness  as  a  thing  impossible  to 
maintain. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said,  "if  I  am  the  only 
person  who  owes  a  gipsy  longing  to  his  so- 
journ in  prison  ?  The  feeling  of  captivity, 
the  feeling  that  you  can't  get  out,  is  one  I  had 
never  known.  I  am  not  sorry.  It  has  done  a 
lot  for  me,  helping  me  to  discover  with  a  sort 
of  moderate  rapture  what's  open  to  me  now, 
to  realise  that  no  corner  in  the  world,  however 

291 


THE  STRAW 

hidden,  however  distant,  is  forbidden  to  my 
foot.  You  have  to  lose  your  liberty,  Gay, 
before  you  can  taste  it  properly.  The  last 
few  weeks  have  taught  me  something  of  the 
joy  of  wandering  anywhere  you  choose.  I  am 
beginning  to  map  out  journeys." 


292 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  WHITE  fog  lay  thick  over  the  pastures 
as  Gay  started  out  cubbing  one  morning 
in  late  September. 

His  horse  snuffed  the  damp  mist,  plunging 
into  it,  lost  in  it  awhile,  until  a  gate  rose  out 
of  the  invisible,  and  a  path  tracked  itself 
dimly  in  the  long,  wet  autumn  grass.  The 
country  was  all  asleep. 

Gay  passed  like  a  phantom  along  two  or 
three  shrouded  fields,  and  let  himself  out  into 
a  byroad,  exchanging  his  silent  canter  for  a 
rapid  trotting  that  could  not  distance  the 
unearthly  echoes  following  him  in  the  fog. 
Weird  and  solitary  was  the  lane  he  travelled, 
until  awakened  by  a  blind  clattering  of  pur- 
suit as  the  Babes  rushed  up  on  either  side, 
brushing  the  hedges,  having  achieved  the 
hard  feat  of  rising  before  the  dawn. 

They  hailed  him  warmly  as  their  sunburnt 
faces  loomed  out  of  the  white  blanket. 

"Don't  look  at  us,"  said  Pinner.  "I  know 
we  are  ragamuffins;  but  it's  not  easy  to  be 

293 


THE  .STRAW 

smart  when  you  oversleep  yourselves  and 
have  to  grope  all  in  a  minute  for  your  clothes, 
only  too  thankful  to  lay  hold  of  anything  that 
feels  like  breeches.  Joseph,  the  lamb,  walked 
in  yesterday  afternoon  and  ate  up  the  candles 
—  cannibal  that  he  is." 

"Why  cannibal?"  said  Gay. 

"Aren't  they  made  of  mutton  fat?"  said 
Pinner.  "What  I  mind  is,  we're  quite 
respectable  at  present,  but  in  two  or  three 
hours  we'll  be  a  mark  of  derision  in  a  blazing 
sun.  We'll  slink  home  directly  there's  an 
end  of  playing  hide-and-seek." 

"There  won't  be  many  out,"  said  Gay, 
trying  not  to  laugh  at  the  result  of  their  hasty 
toilets  as  he  consoled  them. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Stokes.  "I  heard 
the  Burkinshaws  had  come  down"  -he 
glanced  at  Gay  rather  shily  — "  and  Lady 
Sophia  Bland.  She'll  see  in  a  minute  that  I've 
tied  a  handkerchief  round  my  neck  because  I 
couldn't  lay  hands  on  a  tie  or  a  pin  in  the  dark." 

The  Burkinshaws !  Gay  had  not  heard 
that.  He  thought  they  were  still  in  Scotland. 
His  heart  leapt  at  the  hope  of  news,  and  his 
horse  quickened  his  pace  in  sympathy  with 
the  quicker  pulse  of  his  rider. 

"There  they  are!"  said  Pinner,  putting  on 
294 


THE  STRAW 

a  spurt  and  flinging  back  the  gate  he  dashed 
through.  They  had  risen  on  higher  ground; 
across  a  field  came  the  cry  of  hounds  busy  in  a 
cover. 

He  halted  a  little  way  on  and  laughed. 

"Funny  how  the  noise  catches  you,"  he 
said,  "and  makes  you  all  anyhow  with  excite- 
ment when  you  know  you've  got  to  hang 
about  for  hours  watching  'em  playing  games 
with  each  other  and  cracking  your  whip  to 
keep  'em  in  instead  of  holloaing  them  away. 
I  like  that  though.  It  feels  unlawful  and 
upside  down.  Whoosh,  you  beggar—  — !" 

He  made  a  sally,  driving  back  the  smallest 
cub  of  the  litter  stealthily  trying  to  escape 
the  dusting  that  was  going  on,  before  he  was 
let  out  of  school. 

Already  the  sun  was  dissipating  the  fog, 
sign  of  a  brilliant  morning,  and  the  handful 
of  riders  loitering  at  the  covert-side  ceased 
humping  their  chilly  backs,  and  talked  of 
stealing  a  run  before  it  became  too  hot  for 
scent.  Rabbits  were  scuttling  in  all  directions 
among  their  horses'  feet,  and  now  and  then 
a  reddish  mask  peeped  out  and  vanished  back 
into  the  hurly-burly. 

"  Here,  you  sluggard ! "  called  Lord  Robert, 
295 


THE  STRAW 

an  unusual  spectacle  in  a  short  jacket  and 
cowboy  hat,  far  removed  from  his  winter 
primness.  "We  have  been  airing  the  day 
for  you  more  than  an  hour.  Is  Tokenhouse 
with  you  ?" 

Gay  rode  in  beside  him,  trampling  the  wet 
grass  that  grew  tall  and  wild  in  a  tangle  of 
honeysuckle. 

"He  turned  up  unexpectedly  the  other 
night,"  he  said.  "On  his  way  somewhere. 
He  said  he'd  stroll  out  later  and  see  what  we 
were  doing." 

"Sophia  Bland  will  be  glad  of  that,"  said 
Lord  Robert.  "She's  spent  the  whole  sum-' 
mer  trying  to  hit  on  his  whereabouts,  I  did 
nothing  but  knock  up  against  her.  No,  she's 
not  here  yet;  she  is  one  of  the  idle  ones  who 
gather  after  nine  o'clock  when  we  busy  bees 
are  thinking  of  going  home  to  breakfast. 
Lazy  tactics.  Start  with  hounds,  say  I,  and 
stay  your  stomach  with  a  blackberry." 

He  suited  the  action  to  the  word  and  made 
a  wry  face,  for  it  was  unripe. 

"How  are  you?"  he  said.  "Been  down 
here  all  the  while  vegetating  ?  Have  you  got 
any  decent  horses  ?  D'you  know,  Maria 
came  up  to  me  in  Bond  Street  one  fine  day 
and  asked  me  if  it  was  true  that  people  in 
296 


THE  STRAW 

Leicestershire  were  looking  black  upon  you. 
I  said  /  wasn't.  Rather  a  joke  that!" 

Gay  did  not  join  in  his  amusement;  he 
looked  stonily  in  front  of  him. 

"I  told  her,"  said  Lord  Robert  easily, 
"that  even  in  Leicestershire  there  were  a 
few  ill-conditioned  louts.  That  if  she  liked 
I'd  undertake  to  spread  a  report  that  she'd 
poisoned  her  grandmother.  I  said  there 
would  be  no  difficulty  in  raising  a  party  of  true 
believers  among  the  yokels.  She  didn't  like 
it." 

"Don't,  like  a  good  fellow-  '*  said  Gay. 
The  jocular  allusion  to  something  of  which 
he  could  not  be  ignorant  jarred  on  him. 

"There's  nothing  in  it,  is  there  ?"  said 
Lord  Robert.  His  blank  dismay  was  ludicrous 
and  surprised  Gay  into  a  half-bitter  smile. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you  haven't  been  down 
here  for  the  last  few  months." 

"No,"  said  Lord  Robert,  "the  gods  be 
thanked.  I  bolt  out  of  the  country  the  day 
after  Croxton  Park.  Can't  stand  the  plague 
of  emptiness,  the  plague  of  silence  that  falls 
upon  the  earth.  With  the  spinneys  rank 
with  meadow-sweet  and  the  lanes  buried  in 
roses  smothering  them  like  wreaths  at  a 
funeral  —  and  not  a  sound  to  break  the  un- 

297 


THE  STRAW 

hallowed  stillness,  but  the  yelling  of  the 
cuckoos !  Ah,  there's  Maria  herself  look- 
ing just  like  a  jolly  farmer  —  and  the  last  time 
I  saw  her  she  was  vapouring  in  a  tail." 

Gay  had  already  recognised  the  two  figures 
in  the  clearing  distance,  coming  along  the 
headland  in  the  stubble  field  on  his  right.  He 
listened  distractedly  to  his  companion's  tattle, 
watching  these  two  taking  up  their  station 
at  the  other  side  of  the  hedge.  What  was  he 
afraid  of  that  he  did  not  ride  up  to  them  ? 
He  might  wait  for  ever  before  Lord  Robert 
arrived,  in  his  casual  history  of  things  and 
people,  at  the  one  name  of  interest  to  him. 
Had  he  a  reason  for  leaving  her  out  ?  Did  he 
fancy  himself  discreet  ?  What  was  he  saying 
now  -  -  ? 

"The  indefatigable  Maria's  been  laying 
plans.  She's  a  plotter  who  never  cries  peceavi. 
But  it's  rather  too  soon  after  that  last  fiasco. 
I  suppose  she  thinks  one  marriage  will  drive 
out  the  other.  But  the  worst  of  Americans 
is  you  can't  trust  'em.  They  are  too  eager 
to  see  themselves  in  the  public  eye.  I  wouldn't 
bet  against  him  employing  a  press  agent  to 
make  him  famous  as  the  man  whose  wife  was 
the  heroine  of  a  fashionable  tragedy,  etc.  etc., 

298 


THE  STRAW 

and  revive  the  story  every  time  he  gives  a 
dinner-party." 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  said  Gay. 
But  he  knew.  That  rush  of  blood  to .  his 
head  told  him.  It  was  of  her  —  of  her.  What 
could  a  man  wish  but  that  she  should  find 
happiness  ?  And  would  she  not  find  it  surest 
in  a  future  that  offered  forgetfulness  of  all 
that  belonged  to  her  past  ? 

"Common  gossip,"  said  Lord  Robert,  and 
flicked  at  the  bushes.  "Coloured  a  bit  by 
private  prejudice.  The  man  is  presentable. 
I  saw  him  once  or  twice." 

"And  she-    -?"  said  Gay. 

"I  should  imagine,"  said  Lord  Robert, 
"that  she  asked  nothing  better  than  to  be 
lifted  clean  out  of  it  all.  I'll  do  Maria  the 
justice  to  remark  that  she  sees  to  that.  Noth- 
ing like  making  a  clear  sweep  of  old  associa- 
tions. I  didn't  know  she  was  pretty.  There's 
a  look  in  her  face  when  she  smiles  —  I  don't 
know  what  it  is,  but  it's  like  the  sunrise." 

Having  riddled  the  cover  from  end  to  end 
and  taught  its  inhabitants  that  there  was  no 
peace  in  it,  they  were  letting  the  cubs  away. 
And  then  eagerness  was  indulged  in  just  one 
gallop,  one  short  frolic  up  the  stubble,  over 
299 


THE  STRAW 

the  tangled,  bramble-choked  hedge  into  the 
wide,  low  meadow,  where  it  was  like  riding 
through  a  river,  so  wet  the  thick  eddish  was 
with  dew;  and  on  lower  to  the  willows, 
crossing  the  summer-dried  brook  that  was 
nothing  but  mud  and  rushes.  And  then  back 
to  work,  invading  another  stronghold. 

Late  comers  were  dribbling  on  to  the  scene, 
coming  to  swell  the  band  that  had  been  there 
from  the  beginning,  appearing  in  single  spies. 
The  Babes  patted  their  panting  beasts,  full  of 
grass,  as  they  pulled  up  after  the  run,  and  sighed. 

"It's  about  time  we  went,"  said  Pinner. 
"We're  expecting  a  telegram  from  the  aunt. 
Have  you  heard  the  latest  ?  She  wants  us  to 
marry  a  market-gardener." 

"A  semi-demi-cousin  of  our  own,"  said 
Stokes.  "'A  good,  practical  girl,'  she  says. 
She  sent  us  her  photograph  out  of  a  ladies' 
paper.  In  great  boots,  with  a  scowl  like  a 
fiend  incarnate,  digging  in  the  sun." 

"If  we  were  to  amalgamate,"  said  Pinner, 
"she'd  make  us  spend  the  rest  of  our  lives 
weeding  radishes." 

He  leant  back  in  his  saddle  and  pushed  the 
rumpled  hair  off  his  forehead,  relaxing  into  a 
grin. 

"The  aunt  is  too  full  of  plans  for  our  good," 
300 


THE  STRAW 

he  said.  "And  this  would  be  worse  than 
Johnson.  We  couldn't  do  it.  Besides,  Stokes  — 
he'll  deny  it,  but  it's  true  —  is  madly  in  love 
with  a  languid  lady  who  writes  poetry,  and 
she's  studying  field  flowers  by  way  of  qualifying 
for  a  farmer's  wife.  So  I'm  the  eligible  party, 
and  I'm  going  to  tell  her  I've  been  engaged 
from  my  cradle.  No  marriage  of  inconvenience 
for  us.  We're  too  young  and  tender.  She'll 
have  to  let  us  muddle  on  by  ourselves.'* 

Gay  was  inattentive.  He  was  still  making 
up  his  mind  to  approach  Maria,  wondering 
at  his  own  backwardness.  Burkinshaw  he  had 
greeted  already,  shouting  a  word  or  two  at  him 
that  had  no  relation  to  the  question  that 
would  have  sounded  all  right  if  he  could  have 
brought  it  out  naturally.  Why  should  he 
not  ?  Why  not  bluntly  ask  after  Judy  as 
any  other  acquaintance  would  ? 

They  had  moved  on  to  a  little  wood,  a  cover 
roofed  in  with  spreading  trees,  divided  by 
one  dark  ride  running  up  the  middle.  A  few 
of  them  bustled  into  its  depths,  or  craned 
their  necks  over  the  gate  to  watch  the  cubs 
darting  across  the  ride  as  hounds  chased  them 
from  one  side  of  the  wood  to  the  other  under 
the  waving  bracken.  The  rest  scattered,  princi- 
pally on  the  hither  side. 

301 


THE  STRAW 

Gay  turned  into  the  wood,  passed  down 
the  ride,  and  let  himself  out  at  the  further 
gate  where  the  wood  ended  in  a  fringe  of 
nut-bushes  sprinkled  with  ripening  hazels 
and  a  few  ash  trees,  all  whispering  leaves 
waiting  till  the  first  frost  should  bring  them 
shivering  down  in  a  night,  leaving  the  branches 
stripped  of  their  restlessness.  There  was  a 
floating  veil  of  gossamer  on  the  grass,  and  the 
sun  was  turning  the  cobwebs  that  sheeted 
the  hedge  into  a  glistening  mist  of  silver. 

And  then,  quite  suddenly,  Gay  was  deaf  to 
the  cracking  of  whips  and  all  the  confusion 
in  the  wood  behind.  Like  a  man  whose  eyes 
were  dazzled,  he  stared  and  triecl  not  to  cheat 
himself  with  vain  imagining,  tried  to  keep 
steady  against  the  mad  conviction  that  would 
not  be  gainsaid.  She  it  was,  coming  with  the 
sun  in  the  magic  morning. 

He  could  not  wait  to  be  sure  when  his 
heart  warned  him;  could  not  school  himself. 
There  was  just  the  one  thing  to  do,  to  reach 
her  and  fling  himself  off  his  horse,  and  hold 
her  hands  fast  in  his. 

Why,  they  were  laughing,  as  if  they  had 
been  children  who  had  lost  each  other  for  a 
while  in  the  dark.  .  .  . 

Still  holding  her  hands,  the  man  looked  at 
302 


THE  STRAW 

her  with  a  thirsting  eagerness  that  would  not 
be  quenched.  How  slight  she  was,  how 
girlish — what  a  young  thing  to  carry  the 
tragic  knowledge  that  had  darkened  the  trust- 
fulness in  her  eyes.  And  fear  smote  him. 
Perhaps  it  was  not  his  lot  to  teach  her  how  to 
be  happy. 

"Are  you  with  the  Burkinshaws  ?"  he 
said. 

Judy  made  no  attempt  to  release  herself. 
She  smiled  up  in  his  face  like  the  spirit  of  the 
dawn,  who  had  come  wandering  over  the  dim 
grasses,  and  might  like  them  have  been  clad 
in  silver. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Maria  did  not  want 
me  to  come,  but  I  —  I  had  nowhere  to  go 
alone.  She  offered  to  lend  me  a  great,  empty 
house  in  London.  She  said  - 

But  what  Maria,  in  her  surprise,  had  said 
was  not  worth  repeating.  She  brushed  it 
aside. 

Gay  let  go  her  hands.  His  half-incredu- 
lous joy  in  the  miracle  was  dashed.  He  came 
to  himself,  and  the  fall  from  the  heights  was 
bitter. 

"Do  you  know  what  they  are  saying  of 
me  ?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

Ah,  how  like  her,  that  quick  movement  to 
303 


THE  STRAW 

him;  how  like  her  that  unconscious  impulse 
of  protection,  so  dear  and  so  absurd.  .  .  . 

"I  know,"  she  said  bravely;  "that  was 
why  I  came." 

"But  you  don't  understand,"  said  Gay, 
fighting  against  enchantment. 

It  was  horrible  to  have  to  tell  her,  but  it 
would  be  unfair  to  hold  his  peace.  "It's  a 
thing  that  stands  between  us  - 

Judy  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  a  small, 
soft  hand  that  fluttered,  but  could  not  be 
shaken  ofF.  The  charm  of  its  touch  made  him 
still. 

"If  I  did  not  understand,"  she  said,  "I 
might  have  been  too  proud.  But  you  want 
me." 

"  Darling  —  darling  —  darling  ! "  said  Gay 
under  his  breath;  "you'll  never  know  how  I 
want  you." 

The  colour  came  into  her  face;  she  let 
her  eyes  fall  from  his,  but  lifted  them  quickly, 
too  eager  in  his  cause  to  falter.  His  horse, 
standing  like  a  dog  by  his  shoulder,  turned 
his  head  wistfully,  listening  to  the  sounds  in 
the  wood.  The  trees  were  whispering  over- 
head. 

"And  couldn't  you  guess,"  she  said,  "that 
it  was  just  that  would  bring  me  ?  —  the  first 

3°4 


THE  STRAW 

word  that  reached  me,  the  first  word  of 
slander.  I  had  to  let  them  all  see  that  I 
believed  in  you.  They  can't  think  such 
terrible  things  of  you,  if  7  —  his  wife " 

She  left  it  unspoken. 

Gay  bent  and  kissed  that  little  defending 
hand.  Was  that  her  thought,  an  impulse  to 
put  herself  between  him  and  calumny  ?  Had 
she  not  at  all  weighed  the  chances  of  the 
scandal  smirching  her  ?  Could  he  suffer  her 
to  fling  herself  into  the  balance  twice  ?  She 
had  said  once  that  she  did  not  ask  to  be  happy, 
she  only  wanted  to  be  kind.  .  .  .  Poor,  fragile 
straw,  who  had  tried  to  save  one  man  from 
his  ruin;  was  the  same  impetuous  charity 
blinding  her  that  had  wrecked  her  in  that 
sad  failure  ?  Ah,  but  it  should  not.  She 
must  not  come  to  him  like  that. 

"Judy,"  he  said,  and  the  strangeness  in 
his  voice  startled  her.  "Look  at  me,  look 
straight  at  me.  If  I  said  to  you  —  you  are 
wrong,  you  can't  help  me,  can't  fight  my 
battle — you  can  only  harm  me  —  would  you 
give  yourself  to  me  all  the  same?" 

His  eyes  held  hers  and  her  breath  came 
fast  as  if  she  were  frightened;  she  had  turned 
pale.  A  great  gladness  moved  him  to  unsteady 
laughter. 

x  3°5 


THE  STRAW 

"Don't  waste  your  pity  on  me,  my  heart," 
he  said.  "I  am  not  a  coward.  I  am  asking 
you  to  be  selfish  for  the  first  time  in  your 
life.  Will  you?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  shutting  her  eyes  with  a 
sigh  on  his  breast. 

The  Babes  interrupted,  bursting  round  the 
purlieus  of  the  wood,  pursuing  an  imaginary 
brush  among  the  bushes  with  unregarded 
turmoil.  Hounds  and  huntsmen  were  too 
busy  inside  to  attend  to  their  false  alarms. 
They  pulled  up,  unable  to  dissemble  their 
boundless  astonishment  at  the  sight  of  Judy, 
and  scrambled  off,  breaking  into  exclamation. 
Was  she  staying  at  Somerby,  had  she  been  out 
long  ?  Why  was  she  on  foot,  and  how  on  earth 
had  she  found  them  ?  Their  greetings  tumbled 
over  each  other,  until  a  brilliant  idea  occurred 
to  Pinner  and  kept  him  for  a  minute  dumb. 

"I    say  —  oh,    I    say-  he    stammered. 

"Come  in  to  us  for  breakfast.  You  must  be 
awfully  hungry,  tramping  in  that  wet  grass. 
Never  mind  the  cubbing.  They'll  be  dan- 
gling round  here  for  hours.  It's  not  far; 
three  fields  up  the  lane,  three  fields  after  you 
reach  the  barn,  and  there  you  are.  We'll  ride 
on  ahead  and  cook  it." 
3°6 


THE  STRAW 

She  looked  at  Gay,  smiling,  doubtful. 

"Why  not?  "he  said. 

The  delighted  hosts  scampered  on,  urging 
their  sluggish  horses,  and  disappeared  simul- 
taneously through  a  gap  in  the  fence  beyond. 

Gay  slung  his  reins  on  his  arm  and  led  his 
horse,  walking  with  Judy  until  they  had  left 
the  wood  behind  them,  with  its  bustle  of 
hounds  and  riders  skirmishing  in  and  out. 
The  sun  was  up;  hedges  and  grass  alike  were 
glittering,  all  splendid  with  little  stars. 

He  swung  himself  into  the  saddle  and  held 
out  his  hand  to  her. 

"Put  your  foot  on  mine,"  he  said,  "and 
ride  with  me." 

Judy  was  not  afraid.  She  set  her  foot  on 
his,  firm  in  the  stirrup,  springing  upwards, 
sitting  in  front  of  him  in  the  saddle. 

"You  won't  let  me  fall?"  she  said. 

He  laughed,  letting  his  horse  go  on,  and 
keeping  her  steady  with  his  arm. 

"Lean    back,"    he    said.     "You    can't   fall. 

I'm  sure  of  you  like  that.     I  can  feel  you  are 

real,  and  not  that  ghost  that  you  used  to  be. 

Lean  against  me,  Judy.     This  isn't  the  world 

-  it's  heaven ;  —  and  it  was  made  for  us." 

The    hospitable  Babes,   making  haste,    flew 
307 


THE  STRAW 

swiftly  into  the  Tin  House  to  begin  prepara- 
tions, pulling  off  their  coats  to  the  hot  adven- 
ture of  the  frying-pan.  Stokes,  grasping  a 
broom,  tackled  their  curiously-furnished  in- 
terior, and  Pinner,  casting  a  wild  glance  into 
the  larder,  seized  a  basket  and  sprinted  down 
the  hill. 

He  was  on  his  way  back  with  a  fresh  loaf 
and  a  ham  that  he  had  lifted  under  the  eyes 
of  Mrs.  Crow,  too  hurried  to  explain  why  he 
was  thus  unceremoniously  borrowing  —  as  Gay 
and  Judy  finished  their  mad  ride,  and  she 
slid  through  his  arms  to  the  grass.  Running 
like  a  deer,  Pinner  nearly  bumped  into  them 
at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  and,  realising  his 
half-clad  appearance,  cut  back  into  the  stubble 
and  plucked  the  decent  black  coat,  rain- 
stained  and  greenish,  but  still  respectable, 
off  the  scarecrow  that  had  stood  all  the  summer 
in  the  wheat.  Thus  attired,  he  ran  up  to 
them. 

"A  shirt's  all  very  well,  but  a  torn 
shirt-  -!"  he  said.  "It's  not  the  thing  to 
receive  a  lady  in.  Nothing  like  presence  of 
mind." 

And  he  bowed  them  up  the  hill  like  a  major- 
domo. 


308 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

"  T  WANT    to    talk    to    you,    Tokenhouse," 

JL  said  Sophia  Bland.  She  pulled  up  her 
horse  beside  him  and  stretched  out  her  hand. 
There  was  an  under-current  of  eagerness  in  her 
voice,  as  if  something  was  come  to  her  for 
which  she  had  waited  long. 

"And   I-  he   said,   "am   delighted   to 

talk  to  you,  Sophia." 

He  looked  at  her  without  significance, 
without  surprise,  and  she  laughed. 

"Then  we  are  both  content,"  she  said; 
"but  I  can't  shout  at  you  over  a  gate-post. 
Come  in  this  evening." 

"I  think  not,"  said  Tokenhouse.  "No. 
If  you  don't  mind,  Sophia,  I  won't  come  to 
your  house.  Let  us  have  our  day  of  reckoning 
in  the  open." 

"But  that  is  absurd,"  she  said.  "You  talk 
as  if  we  were  enemies  and  not  old,  old  friends. 
You  aren't  afraid  of  me  ?" 

"No,"  he  said,  smiling.  "I  have  no 
reason  to  be  afraid." 

309 


THE  STRAW 

Lord  Robert  popped  up  on  the  other  side 
of  the  fence.  Scent  was  bad,  and  he  had 
been  wading  into  the  nettles,  trying  to  dis- 
turb a  cub  that  he  imagined  lying  low  in  the 
bottom  of  an  open  drain,  while  hounds  were 
leaping  backwards  and  forwards  over  his  head. 

"Run  him  to  earth,  have  you?"  he  said. 
"Clutch  him,  Sophia;  he's  slippery.  Before 
you  know  it  he'll  be  gone,  and  next  time  you 
meet  him  it'll  be  in  Japan.  Whoa,  you  brute  !" 

He  switched  the  reins  back  over  his  horse's 
head  and  climbed  on  to  him. 

"It's  about  time  we  left  off,"  he  said. 
"What  do  you  mean  by  strolling  out  to  look 
at  us,  Tokenhouse,  when  the  fun  is  over  ? 
We've  raked  three  covers  fore  and  aft,  and 
earned  a  few  crab-apples.  I  can't  think  why 
we're  starving,  with  all  these  mushrooms 
about  and  these  branches  full  of  sloes  behind 
you  there.  Look  at  the  purple  bloom  on 
them !  Try  one,  just  one  of  them,  Sophia." 

"Don't,"  she  said;  "you  set  my  teeth  on 
edge." 

"You're  too  sophisticated,"  said  Lord 
Robert.  "You  aren't  a  child  of  Nature. 
By  the  way,  there's  an  extraordinary  rumour 
going  round." 

It  was  a  rumour  that  had  spread  like  wild- 
310 


THE  STRAW 

fire,  tossed  from  one  man  to  another  in  the  last 
half-hour.  He  read  knowledge  of  it  in  Sophia's 
face,  and  checked  himself  to  marvel  at  her 
expression.  She  had  the  smile  of  a  dangerous 
woman  pleased. 

Lord  Robert  was  at  a  loss.  He  was  annoyed 
at  his  own  stupidity  that  could  not  divine 
what  purpose  of  hers  was  served  by  this  tale, 
true  or  false. 

"It  was  Burkinshaw  himself  started  it," 
he  said.  "I  heard  him  puffing  round  the 
corner  of  the  wood  to  tell  Maria.  And  she 
took  it  with  resignation,  didn't  even  snap  at 
him  to  hold  his  tongue.  He  hates  cubbing; 
says  it's  dull,  and  rolls  his  eyes  around  like  an 
animated  cod-fish  looking  out  for  a  bit  of 
gossip.  He  may  have  made  it  up  to  pass  the 
time.  I  think  I'll  ask  him." 

"It's  probably  true,"  said  Sophia  with 
ostentatious  carelessness  which  did  not  de- 
ceive Lord  Robert. 

"What  do  you  say,  Tokenhouse?"  he 
inquired.  "You  are  back  in  your  old  quarters; 
you  know  everything,  of  course.  Don't  be 
too  discreet.  Give  us  your  opinion." 

Tokenhouse  shifted  his  position,  leaning 
on  the  fence.  One  young  hound,  pursuing  a 
vain  suspicion,  pushed  past  him  into  the 

3" 


THE  STRAW 

open,  and  then,  disappointed,  turned  back 
again.  He  stooped  to  help  him  over  the  bars. 

"I  am  only  down  here  for  a  day  or  two," 
he  said.  "I've  become  a  vagabond,  Gay 
has  not  consulted  me  —  yet;  but  on  the  whole 
I  am  disposed  to  agree  with  Sophia." 

She  looked  at  him;  her  voice  became  soft 
and  wheedling. 

"I  shall  expect  you  this  evening,"  she  said. 
"Don't  be  churlish." 

Tokenhouse  did  not  answer  her  immediately. 
He  seemed  to  be  considering.  Finally,  a 
curious  little  smile  came  and  settled  on  his 
mouth. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "I'll  come." 

"I  stood  by  you,  didn't  I?"  said  Sophia 
Bland. 

He  had  known  that  he  would  at  last  reach 
that  subject,  that  the  trivialities  with  which 
they  pretended  to  amuse  each  other  would 
suddenly  give  place  to  this.  It  was  for  the 
woman  to  make  the  first  move,  and  he  knew 
if  he  kept  indifferent  she  would  make  it. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

She  leaned  forward,  the  laces  slipping  back 
from  her  arms,  the  light  shining  in  her  hair, 
smiling  too. 

3" 


THE  STRAW 

"And  you  never  thanked  me,"  she  said 
plaintively. 

"My  dear  Sophia,"  he  said,  "surely  I  was 
not  so  ungrateful." 

"Not  in  the  way  I  want  to  be  thanked," 
she  said,  "not  with  your  confidence." 

"Isn't  that  rather  a  dangerous  gift?"  said 
Tokenhouse.  "I  might  bore  you,  or  burden 
you  with  too  many  secrets.  Why  not  let 
sleeping  dogs  lie,  Sophia?" 

"Did  you  ever  know  a  woman  who  could  ?" 
she  said,  and  laughed.  "Leave  us  in  the  dark 
and  we're  villains.  Trust  us  and  we  are  dumb." 

Tokenhouse  looked  at  her  keenly. 

"Is  that  why,"  he  said,  "I  find  some  weak 
idiots  looking  with  knowing  ill-favour  at  Gay, 
repeating  the  strange  circumstances  of  what 
happened  here  last  winter  ?  I  thought  by 
this  time  it  was  fairly  well  established  that 
Lauder  had  shot  himself.  What  have  you 
been  doing  it  for,  Sophia  ?" 

She  did  not  defend  herself  against  his 
penetration. 

"It  is  only  human,"  she  said,  with  her 
eyes  on  him,  "that  people  should  ask  them- 
selves why  you  wouldn't  give  evidence  on 
your  own  behalf.  Gay  said  that  you  had 
gone  out  to  look  for  him;  you  were  the  only 

313 


THE  STRAW 

person  who  knew  if  what  he  said  were  true  — 
and  you  never  spoke.  You  are  an  odd  person, 
Tokenhouse;  if  it  had  been  anybody  else 
there  could  only  have  been  one  opinion  of 
your  unaccountable  behaviour  —  but  since  it 
was  you,  it  was  put  down  to  all  sorts  of  eccen- 
tric reasons.  And  some  of  us  are  convinced 
you  were  silent  to  shield  a  friend." 

"And,  therefore,"  he  observed,  as  if  the 
thing  amused  him,  "you  determine  to  ruin 
Gay  ?  You  suggest  to  a  pack  of  credulous 
fools  that  if  he  were  fit  to  get  out  of  bed  he 
was  fit  to  possess  himself  of  my  other  revolver 
—  the  one  that  was  found  in  its  case  clean  and 
loaded  —  and  break  into  another  man's  house, 
and  shoot  steady  - 

He  had  smoked  his  cigarette  to  the  stump, 
threw  it  into  the  fender  and  lit  another. 

"I  should  like  to  know,"  he  remarked, 
"whether  you  pronounce  him  able  to  take  the 
precaution  of  closing  the  window-shutter, 
and,  after  baffling  my  search,  to  get  home 
unseen,  reload  and  put  away  the  weapon  he 
had  used  —  all  that  before  collapsing.  Or  do 
you  think  I  took  charge,  of  that  part?  Please 
gratify  my  curiosity." 

His  manner  was  perfectly  unconcerned. 

"Bill  never  shot  himself.  He  never  shot 
314 


THE  STRAW 

himself!"  cried  the  woman  suddenly.  Her 
breast  heaved;  she  could  not  play  her  part 
after  all. 

"You  think  so?" 

"I  should  have  known,"  she  said,  defiant 
in  her  past  knowledge  of  the  man.  "He 
would  have  warned  me  —  he  would  have 
threatened." 

"Poor  Sophia!"  said  Tokenhouse.  There 
was  a  human  note  in  his  voice.  "Were  you 
fond  of  him  after  all  ?" 

For  a  minute  she  struggled  for  breath,  but 
it  was  a  laugh  that  came;  she  looked  at  him 
very  strangely. 

"No,"  she  said.  "No,  I  wasn't.  Don't 
think  that  of  me,  Tokenhouse  —  that  I  could 

be  so  humble  —  slavish !  But  I  can't  bear 

them  all  saying  he  killed  himself,  and  that  it 
was  my  doing.  I  can't  bear  that.  Oh,  they 
do.  I've  heard  them.  They  think  I'm  a 
callous  fiend  who  drove  him  mad  to  punish 
him  for  deserting  me;  who  taunted  and 
flouted  him,  not  from  any  riotous  virtue,  but 
just  to  punish.  I'm  worse  in  their  eyes  than 
the  lowest  woman ! " 

She  moved  restlessly,  turned  up  the  lamp 
that  was  burning  low;  and  her  arm  glowed 
under  the  shade  of  it  as  red  as  blood.  Then 


she  sank  back  on  her  sofa.  She  did  not  mind 
him  seeing  her  face;  what  she  wanted  was  to 
watch  his. 

"They  all  pity  her,"  she  said.  "They 
Jiistened  to  her  hysterical  version,  they  were 
gentle  with  her  —  the  persecuted  innocent, 
the  poor,  poor  crushed  little  girl  who  was  too 
rich,  the  victim  of  a  brutal  husband  who  had 
made  away  with  himself.  And  now  she  is  to 
marry  Gay.  That's  all  you've  won  by  your  crazy 
chivalry,  Tokenhouse.  She  is  to  marry  Gay." 

"Do  you  mean,"  said  Tokenhouse  com- 
posedly, "that  you  actually  think  he  was 
guilty  ? " 

Her  hands  were  trembling;  she  clenched 
them  in  her  lap,  laughing  at  him. 

"Gay?"  she  cried  with  scorn.  "I'd  as 
soon  believe  it  was  you !  Oh,  it  suited  me  to 
fight  under  any  flag.  But  —  I  know.  If  Gay 
had  shot  him  he  would  have  cried  it  out 
aloud;  he's  not  the  kind  to  let  a  friend  run 
his  risk.  He  would  have  flung  the  truth  at  them 
instead  of  stammering  in  the  witness-box. 
It  was  not  Gay  you  were  screening." 

"Who  then?"  said  Tokenhouse,  still  coolly, 
but  not  smiling. 

Her  bitterness  was  like  a  dammed  river  that, 
bursting,  submerged  all  caution. 
316 


THE  STRAW 

"She  did  not  care,"  she  cried;  "she  did  not 
come  forward  to  speak  the  truth  and  save 
you.  She  would  have  let  you  die  for  her, 
and  kept  the  world's  pity,  accepting  the 
sacrifice " 

Tokenhouse  got  to  his  feet.  His  face  had 
become  white;  it  worked  with  a  strange 
emotion. 

"Sophia,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  was  un- 
like his  own,  so  quick  and  passionate  it  was, 
"you  do  not  dare." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "it's  always  the  little, 
cowardly,  pale-mouthed  women  who  commit 
the  crimes." 

She   had   launched   her  thunderbolt. 

It  was  as  still  as  death  in  the  room,  the 
stuffy  luxurious  room  full  of  peacocks'  feathers. 
The  lamp,  turned  a  little  too  high,  was  flaring. 
The  smoke  of  it  stained  the  ceiling.  Sophia's 
bitter,  burning  eyes  did  not  fall  as  she  stared 
at  the  man  who  knew. 

"You  are  mad,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  I  can't  prove  it,"  said  Sophia.  "No- 
body can  do  that  but  you.  And  if  I  stood  up 
and  accused  her  I  should  be  hounded  out  of 
society  by  a  sympathising  world.  That's  why 
I  haven't  -  But  some  day  —  who  knows  ? 

—  my  turn  will  come.  I'll  always  watch  for 

317 


THE  STRAW 

it,  Tokenhouse,  though  I've  been  a  fool  to- 
night. .  .  .  She  got  the  revolver  from  him 
and  shot  him.  I  can't  tell  how  I  know  it; 
perhaps  it's  instinct.  He  belonged  to  me, 
and  she  stole  him;  and  somehow  I  know. 
She  killed  him/' 

Tokenhouse  controlled  himself,  recovering 
his  composure  and  that  ironic  nonchalance  that 
was  a  part  of  him.  He  did  not  sit  down 
again,  but  leaned  against  the  chimneypiece, 
his  clean-cut  features,  neither  young  nor  old, 
stamped  with  a  tired  indifference,  reflected 
in  the  mirror;  his  shoulders  a  little  bent. 

"That  will  do,  Sophia,"  he  said.  "You 
are  not  an  avenging  goddess,  you're  an  im- 
placable, noisy  woman.  And  you  can  do 
nothing;  you  can't  hurt  her.  I'll  take  care 
of  that." 

"Oh,  you're  like  the  rest,"  she  said.  "You 
fall  down  before  her  and  worship  her  because 
she  looks  so  helpless.  But  I  wasn't  deceived 
by  your  philosophy,  Tokenhouse,  your  affecta- 
tion of  being  a  looker-on." 

"I  see,"  he  said,  "you  will  have  to  be  told 
the  story." 

She  caught  her  breath  and  stared  at  him 
for  a  minute  between  triumph  and  stupe- 
faction. After  she  had  thwarted  her  plans 
318 


THE  STRAW 

by  the  violence  of  a  passion  she  had  too  long 
suppressed,  after  she  had  betrayed  herself  — 
was  he  going  to  give  her  victory  ?  She  tried 
to  understand  his  intention,  to  read  that 
inscrutable  countenance,  guessing  at  his  motive. 

"You  can't  swear  me  to  secrecy,"  she  said. 
"I  am  not  to  be  cajoled/' 

"Not,"  said  Tokenhouse,  "if  it  were  a 
condition  ? " 

He  spoke  carelessly,  as  if  stopping  to  be 
amused  by  something  so  unimportant  that  it 
was  scarcely  worth  his  smile. 

"We'll  come  to  that  later,"  he  said.  "So 
you  conceive,  Sophia,  that  I  know  too  much  ? 
And  you've  been  waiting  for  the  propitious 
moment  to  make  me  tell.  You  didn't  put 
down  my  queer  conduct  at  the  time  to  an 
eccentric  dislike  to  letting  myself  be  bullied 
before  the  crowd  to  save  my  skin  ?  The 
misplaced  vanity  of  a  poor  fellow  who  is  a 
little  touched  ?" 

"No,"  she  said  with  scorn. 

"I  am  obliged  to  you  for  the  compliment," 
said  Tokenhouse.  "You  were  right.  I  held 
my  tongue  for  my  own  convenience.  I  am  a 
bad  liar.  Even  if  you  do  it  for  others,  lying 
is  an  undignified  occupation.  You'll  call  it  a 
foolish  scruple,  but  I  couldn't  stoop.  And  I 


THE  STRAW 

should  have  been  driven  to  it  in  cross-examina- 
tion, which  was  unnecessary.  I  happened  to 
know  that  you  could  testify  to  Lauder's 
having  my  revolver  in  his  possession.  He 
told  me  himself  that  he  had  taken  it  home 
and  chucked  it  in  a  drawer.  I  was  tolerably 
certain  that  I  should  be  acquitted.  In  fact, 
my  only  anxiety  was  in  case  I  should  not  be 
tried.  It  was  good  of  you,  Sophia,  to  keep 
your  knowledge  to  yourself  until  the  dramatic 
moment." 

"I  knew  you  were  doing  it  for  her,"  said 
Sophia  Bland.  "I  knew  you  were  screening 
her.  If  anything  could  frighten  her  into 
confession  it  should  have  been  that.  Why 
should  I  ease  her  conscience  by  showing  her 
you  were  safe  ?" 

"Ah,"  said  Tokenhouse,  and  paused  as  she 
hushed  her  accusing  voice,  lusting  for  the 
revelation  that  was  to  come.  "Well,  you  are 
going  to  hear  the  whole  story.  .  .  ." 

She  listened,  avid. 

"Gay  heard  Lauder  galloping  home,"  he 
said,  "and  got  it  into  his  head  that  his  wife 
was  in  danger  from  him.  He  was  in  a  fever, 
too  headstrong  to  listen  to  argument;  he 
made  me  promise  to  go  and  see.  I  did.  I 
went  out  and  came  across  an  old  vagabond 

320 


THE  STRAW 

who  worked  for  Gay  and  was  creeping  through 
his  fields  on  a  poaching  errand.  He  couldn't 
swear  I  was  going  to  Lauder's  house;  for  all 
he  knew  I  might  have  been  playing  game- 
keeper, or  taking  a  stroll  for  my  pleasure  in 
the  dark.  He  only  saw  me  out,  as  he  said. 
I  went  on.  Mind,  Sophia,  I  wasn't  taking  the 
thing  seriously;  I  was  only  satisfying  a  sick 
man  and  indulging  a  —  whim  of  my  own. 
I  went  on,  crossed  the  gravel,  and  stood  on 
the  grass,  frozen  as  hard  as  iron,  outside  a 
window  that  hadn't  been  shuttered  close. 
I  heard  music." 

"Go  on,"  said  Sophia  Bland,  leaning  for- 
ward, her  eyes  dilated,  her  lips  apart. 

"I  didn't  go  in  —  then,"  said  Tokenhouse 
significantly,  "but  I  had  an  idea  that  Gay 
was  right  and  she  might  want  protection. 
I  didn't  like  the  look  of  what  I  saw  through 
that  crack.  I  thought  I  had  time  to  go  back 
and  fetch  something  —  something  that  would 
put  me  on  equal  terms  with  a  drunken  bully. 
It  did  not  take  long.  But  I  found  that  Gay 
had  managed  to  start  out  himself.  Perhaps 
he  thought  I  had  no  real  intention  of  doing 
what  I  promised  to  pacify  him;  perhaps  he 
forgot;  he  was  half  delirious.  Anyhow,  he 
had  disappeared  while  I  was  gone.  I  thought 
y  321 


THE  STRAW 

I  must  have  missed  him.  I  made  the  more 
haste  back,  knowing  where  he  would  try  to  go." 

He  broke  off,  understanding  the  woman's 
gasp. 

"He  never  got  there/'  he  said  quietly;  "I've 
a  witness  to  that.  When  I  came  back  from 
Lauder's  house  —  afterwards,  I  found  the  man 
from  the  Tin  House,  Johnson,  supporting 
him.  He  had  stumbled  over  him  at  the  stile. 
Gay  had  struggled  as  far  as  that  first  stile, 
and  then  he  had  given  out.  I'd  gone  by  the 
gate.  Between  us  we  got  him  in  quietly  and 
put  him  to  bed.  He'd  fainted  from  pain  in 
spite  of  his  doggedness,  and  we  made  no 
noise.  I  didn't  let  him  know  there  had  been 
two  of  us  helping  him  in  the  morning.  As  for 
Johnson,  I  got  rid  of  him,  muzzled  him,  made  it 
worth  his  while  to  go  abroad  for  a  year " 

"Why?"  asked  Sophia  swiftly. 

Tokenhouse  smiled,  as  if  permitting  him- 
self a  digression  that  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  point  of  his  story. 

"Have  you  ever  noticed  how  sound  carries 
on  a  still  winter's  night?"  he  said.  "Out 
of  doors,  that  is.  The  servants  in  that  house, 
shut  off  by  thick  baize  doors,  cut  off  by  inter- 
minable passages,  heard  nothing;  but  John- 
son, out  in  the  fields,  tumbling  over  Gay  at  the 

322 


THE  STRAW 

stile,  heard  a  pistol  crack.  You'll  admit, 
Sophia,  that  it  was  awkward  for  me  that  I 
should  land  upon  him  from  that  direction. 
I  am  a  prudent  man,  not  so  quixotic  as  you 
suppose.  I  didn't  think  at  the  time  I  was 
injuring  Gay  by  taking  a  temporary  precaution. 
And  I'm  not  afraid  of  the  man  blackmailing 
me.  I'll  get  a  signed  statement  from  him 
myself  for  anybody  who  wants  it  —  now." 

"Then  you  were  there  ..."  she  said. 
"You  saw-  -?" 

"Yes,"  said  Tokenhouse.  "I  went  back 
and  found  her  at  the  mercy  of  a  half-drunken 
husband,  who  had  taken  that  revolver  of  mine 
out  of  the  drawer  into  which  he  had  thrown 
it,  and  used  it  to  frighten  her.  Can't  you 
pity  her  now,  Sophia,  jeered  at,  insulted,  in 
terror  of  her  life  ?  Not  a  woman  like  you, 
remember,  but  a  girl  —  just  a  girl " 

"She  murdered  him,"  said  Sophia,  in  a 
harsh  whisper.  Her  fierce  interest  was  crossed 
by  a  lightning  flash  of  contempt.  The 
patronising  world  had  known  him  better  than 
she.  There  must  be  a  mental  weakness  in  the 
man  whose  obstinate  silence  had  now  un- 
accountably broken  down. 

"She  was  braving  him  alone  and  defence- 
less," said  Tokenhouse.  "As  I  came  to  the 

323 


THE  STRAW 

window  I  heard  him  curse  her.  I  told  you 
the  shutter  was  not  secure;  the  bar  had 
slipped  and  the  sides  had  fallen  apart.  Lauder 
had  careless  servants.  Standing  close  I  could 
see  into  the  room.  He  struck  her,  Sophia, 
kicked  her  falling  body  like  the  vilest  brute 
on  the  earth  -  The  window-catch  gave 
way  at  a  push  •* " 

He  stopped  himself.  Into  his  voice  that 
had  vibrated  to  unaccustomed  emotion  came 
a  sardonic  calm. 

"It  doesn't  matter  in  the  least  what  I  say 
to  you,"  he  observed.  "I  am  in  a  position  to 
shout  it  out  on  the  house-tops.  There  was 
more  method  in  my  madness,  Sophia,  than 
anybody  supposed.  Since  I've  been  solemnly 
tried  and  acquitted  according  to  law,  no  man 
can  touch  me.  There's  nothing  perilous  in 
repeating  what  I  know  as  openly  as  I  choose  — 
no  occasion  to  let  rumour  poison  the  character 
of  a  friend.  It  gives  one  an  odd  sense  of 
power,  Sophia  - 

"Why?"  she  said,  holding  her  breath. 

"Because,"  said  Tokenhouse,  "I  did  it." 


324 


MISS  ZONA  GALE'S  Charming  Novels 


Friendship  Village 


Those  who  shook  their  heads  over  that  delightfully  impossible  romance 
"The  Loves  of  Pelleas  and  Etarre  "  as  being  too  good  to  be  true,  will 
find  that  in  Miss  Gale's  new  volume  the  life  of  a  small  American  village 
is  reproduced  with  a  fidelity  that  is  almost  photographic.  Yet  it  loses 
no  element  of  the  charm  of  atmosphere  which  this  author  suggests  with 
a  rare  perfection. 


The  Loves  of  Pelleas  and  Etarre 

"  To  all  who  know  the  hidden  sources  of  human  joy  and  have  neither 
grown  old  in  cynicism  nor  gray  in  utilitarianism,  Miss  Gale's  charming 
love  stories,  full  of  fresh  feeling  and  grace  of  style,  will  be  a  draught 
from  the  fountain  of  youth."  —  Outlook. 

"Tender  and  dreamlike  as  is  the  atmosphere  that  pervades  this  story,  a 
divine  and  radiant  possibility  along  the  line  of  utmost  truth  underlies  it 
and  opens  heaven  to  a  weary  multitude.  .  .  .  The  contented  spirit,  the 
assurance  of  all  good,  the  poetic  response  to  all  beauty,  declare  them- 
selves in  all  the  lines  and  incidents  of  the  story,  as  the  atmosphere  of 
heaven  let  down  to  earth  that  love  can  thrive  in  though  a  century  of 
time  has  passed  over  its  objects."  —  St.  Louis  Globe- Democrat. 

"  The  delicate  and  delightful  chronicles  of  Pelleas  and  Etarre  ...  are 
very  human,  very  appealing,  and  very  well  written  ...  a  remarkable 
blend  of  the  ideal,  the  real,  and  the  romantic.  A  vivid  humanity 
animates  her  characters  and  makes  them  creatures  of  flesh  and  blood; 
sheer  spontaneity  of  humor  and  pathos  brings  the  joy  of  laughter  and  the 
tenderness  of  tears  to  the  reader's  eyes  as  some  quaint  conceit  or 
touching  sentiment  comes  to  the  fore.  The  style  is  fascinating,  so 
vivid,  so  clear,  so  colorful.  The  characterization  is  graced  by  dehnite- 
ness  and  subtlety  of  live  acute  psychology,  and  wonderful  penetration 
into  life  as  it  is  lived.  ...  '  The  Loves  of  Pelleas  and  Etarre  '  is  not 
only  the  best  thing  that  Miss  Gale  has  done  .  .  .  but  is  distinctly  and 
notably  one  of  the  choicest  literary  achievements  of  recent  years."  — 
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THE  STRAW 

window  I  heard  him  curse  her.  I  told  you 
the  shutter  was  not  secure;  the  bar  had 
slipped  and  the  sides  had  fallen  apart.  Lauder 
had  careless  servants.  Standing  close  I  could 
see  into  the  room.  He  struck  her,  Sophia, 
kicked  her  falling  body  like  the  vilest  brute 
on  the  earth  -  The  window-catch  gave 
way  at  a  push  •* " 

He  stopped  himself.  Into  his  voice  that 
had  vibrated  to  unaccustomed  emotion  came 
a  sardonic  calm. 

"It  doesn't  matter  in  the  least  what  I  say 
to  you,"  he  observed.  "I  am  in  a  position  to 
shout  it  out  on  the  house-tops.  There  was 
more  method  in  my  madness,  Sophia,  than 
anybody  supposed.  Since  I've  been  solemnly 
tried  and  acquitted  according  to  law,  no  man 
can  touch  me.  There's  nothing  perilous  in 
repeating  what  I  know  as  openly  as  I  choose  — 
no  occasion  to  let  rumour  poison  the  character 
of  a  friend.  It  gives  one  an  odd  sense  of 
power,  Sophia  - 

"Why?"  she  said,  holding  her  breath. 

"Because,"  said  Tokenhouse,  "I  did  it." 


324 


MISS  ZONA  GALE'S  Charming  Novels 


Friendship  Village 


Those  who  shook  their  heads  over  that  delightfully  impossible  romance 
"  The  Loves  of  Pelleas  and  Etarre  "  as  being  too  good  to  be  true,  will 
find  that  in  Miss  Gale's  new  volume  the  life  of  a  small  American  village 
is  reproduced  with  a  fidelity  that  is  almost  photographic.  Yet  it  loses 
no  element  of  the  charm  of  atmosphere  which  this  author  suggests  with 
a  rare  perfection. 


The  Loves  of  Pelleas  and  Etane 

"  To  all  who  know  the  hidden  sources  of  human  joy  and  have  neither 
grown  old  in  cynicism  nor  gray  in  utilitarianism,  Miss  Gale's  charming 
love  stories,  full  of  fresh  feeling  and  grace  of  style,  will  be  a  draught 
from  the  fountain  of  youth."  —  Outlook. 

"  Tender  and  dreamlike  as  is  the  atmosphere  that  pervades  this  story,  a 
divine  and  radiant  possibility  along  the  line  of  utmost  truth  underlies  it 
and  opens  heaven  to  a  weary  multitude.  .  .  .  The  contented  spirit,  the 
assurance  of  all  good,  the  poetic  response  to  all  beauty,  declare  them- 
selves in  all  the  lines  and  incidents  of  the  story,  as  the  atmosphere  of 
heaven  let  down  to  earth  that  love  can  thrive  in  though  a  century  of 
time  has  passed  over  its  objects."  —  St.  Louis  Globe- Democrat. 

"  The  delicate  and  delightful  chronicles  of  Pelleas  and  Etarre  .  .  .  are 
very  human,  very  appealing,  and  very  well  written  ...  a  remarkable 
blend  of  the  ideal,  the  real,  and  the  romantic.  A  vivid  humanity 
animates  her  characters  and  makes  them  creacures  of  flesh  and  blood; 
sheer  spontaneity  of  humor  and  pathos  brings  the  joy  of  laughter  and  the 
tenderness  of  tears  to  the  reader's  eyes  as  some  quaint  conceit  or 
touching  sentiment  comes  to  the  fore.  The  style  is  fascinating,  so 
vivid,  so  clear,  so  colorful.  The  characterization  is  graced  by  definite- 
ness  and  subtlety  of  live  acute  psychology,  and  wonderful  penetration 
into  life  as  it  is  lived.  ...  '  The  Loves  of  Pelleas  and  Etarre '  is  not 
only  the  best  thing  that  Miss  Gale  has  done  .  .  .  but  is  distinctly  and 
notably  one  of  the  choicest  literary  achievements  of  recent  years."  — 
Evening  Telegraph,  Philadelphia. 

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Mr.  Crewe's  Career  Illustrated 

"  Another  chapter  in  his  broad,  epical  delineation  of  the  American  spirit 
...  It  is  an  honest  and  fair  story.  ...  It  is  very  interesting;  and  the 
heroine  is  a  type  of  woman  as  fresh,  original,  and  captivating  as  any  thai 
has  appeared  in  American  novels  for  a  long  time  past."  —  The  Outlook 
New  York. 

"  Shows  Mr.  Churchill  at  his  best.  The  flavor  of  his  humor  is  of  thai 
stimulating  kind  which  asserts  itself  just  the  moment,  as  it  were,  after  it  has 
passed  the  palate.  ...  As  for  Victoria,  she  has  that  quality  of  vivid  fresh- 
ness, tenderness,  and  independence  which  makes  so  many  modern 
American  heroines  delightful."  —  The  Times,  London. 

The  Celebrity.    An  Episode 

"  No  such  piece  of  inimitable  comedy  in  a  literary  way  has  appeared  for 
years.  ...  It  is  the  purest,  keenest  fun."  —  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

Richard  Carvel  Illustrated 

".  .  .  In  breadth  of  canvas,  massing  of  dramatic  effect,  depth  of  feeling,  and 
rare  wholesomeness  of  spirit,  it  has  seldom,  if  ever,  been  surpassed  by  an 
American  romance." —  Chicago  Tribune. 

The  Crossing  Illustrated 

41 '  The  Crossing '  is  a  thoroughly  interesting  book,  packed  with  exciting 
adventure  and  sentimental  incident,  yet  faithful  to  historical  fact  both  in 
detail  and  in  spirit."  —  The  Dial. 

The   Crisis  Illustrated 

"  It  is  a  charming  love  story,  and  never  loses  its  interest.  .  .  .  The  intense 
political  bitterness,  the  intense  patriotism  of  both  parties,  are  shown  under- 
standingly."  —  Evening  Telegraph,  Philadelphia. 

Collision  Illustrated 

"  '  Coniston '  has  a  lighter,  gayer  spirit  and  a  deeper,  tenderer  touch  than 
Mr.  Churchill  lias  ever  achieved  before.  ...  It  is  one  of  the  truest  and 
finest  transcripts  of  modern  American  life  thus  far  achieved  in  our  fic- 
tion." —  Chicago  Record-Herald. 


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The  Gospel  of  Freedom 


"  A  novel  that  may  truly  be  called  the  greatest  study  of  social  life,  in  a 
broad  and  very  much  up-to-date  sense,  that  has  ever  been  contributed  to 
American  fiction." —  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

The  Web  of  Life 

"  It  is  strong  in  that  it  faithfully  depicts  many  phases  of  American  life,  and 
uses  them  to  strengthen  a  web  of  fiction,  which  is  most  artistically  wrought 
out."  —  Buffalo  Express. 

The  Real  World 

"  The  title  of  the  book  has  a  subtle  intention.  It  indicates,  and  is  true  to 
the  verities  in  doing  so,  the  strange  dreamlike  quality  of  life  to  the  man 
who  has  not  yet  fought  his  own  battles,  or  come  into  conscious  possession 
of  his  will — only  such  battles  bite  into  the  consciousness." — Chicago 
Tribune. 

The  Common  Lot 

"  It  grips  the  reader  tremendously.  ...  It  is  the  drama  of  a  human  soul 
the  reader  watches  .  .  .  the  finest  study  of  human  motive  that  has  appeared 
for  many  a  day."  —  The  World  To-day. 

The  Memoirs  of  an  American  Citizen*     Illustrated 

with  about  fifty  drawings  by  F.  B.  Masters. 

41  Mr.  Herrick's  book  is  a  book  among  many,  and  he  comes  nearer  to 
reflecting  a  certain  kind  of  recognizable,  contemporaneous  American  spirit 
than  anybody  has  yet  done."  —  New  York  Times. 

"  Intensely  absorbing  as  a  story,  it  is  also  a  crisp,  vigorous  document  of 
startling  significance.  More  than  any  other  writer  to-day  he  is  giving  us 
tke  American  novel."  —  New  York  Globe. 


Together 


"Journeys  end  in  lovers  meeting,"  says  the  old  saw;  so  all  novels  used 
to  end  — in  marriage.  Yet  Mr.  Herrick's  interesting  new  novel  only 
begins  there;  the  best  brief  description  of  it  is,  indeed,  —  a  novel  about 
married  people  for  all  who  are  married. 


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NOVELS,  ETC.,  BY  "BARBARA" 

(MABEL  OSGOOD  WRIGHT) 


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The  Garden  of  a  Commuter's  Wife         Illustrated 

"  Reading  it  is  like  having  the  entry  into  a  home  of  the  class  that  is  the 
proudest  product  of  our  land,  a  home  where  love  of  books  and  love  of 
nature  go  hand  in  hand  with  hearty,  simple  love  of  '  folks.'  ...  It  is  a 
charming  book." —  The  Interior. 

People  of  the  Whirlpool  Illustrated 

"  The  whole  book  is  delicious,  with  its  wise  and  kindly  humor,  its  just  per- 
spective of  the  true  values  of  things,  its  clever  pen  pictures  of  people  and 
customs,  and  its  healthy  optimism  for  the  great  world  in  general."  — 
Philadelphia  Evening  Telegraph. 

The  Woman  Errant 

"  The  book  is  worth  reading.  It  will  cause  discussion.  It  is  an  interest- 
ing fictional  presentation  of  an  important  modern  question,  treated  with 
fascinating  feminine  adroitness."  —  Miss  JEANNETTE  GILDER  in  The  Chi- 
cago Tribune. 

At  the  Sign  of  the  Fox 

"  Her  little  pictures  of  country  life  are  fragrant  with  a  genuine  love  of 
nature,  and  there  is  fun  as  genuine  in  her  notes  on  rural  character.  A 
travelling  pieman  is  one  of  her  most  lovable  personages ;  another  is  Tatters, 
a  dog,  who  is  humanly  winsome  and  wise,  and  will  not  soon  be  forgotten 
by  the  reader  of  this  very  entertaining  book."  —  New  York  Tribune. 

The  Garden,  You  and  I 

"This  volume  is  simply  the  best  she  has  yet  put  forth,  and  quite  too  deli- 
ciously  torturing  to  the  reviewer,  whose  only  garden  is  in  Spain.  .  .  .  The 
delightful  humor  which  pervaded  the  earlier  books,  and  without  which 
Barbara  would  not  be  Barbara,  has  lost  nothing  of  its  poignancy,  and 
would  make  '  The  Garden,  You  and  I '  pleasant  reading  even  to  the  man 
who  doesn't  know  a  pink  from  a  phlox  or  a  Daphne  cneorum  from  a 
Cherokee  rose."  —  Congregationalist. 

The  Open  Window.      Tales  of  the  Months. 


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Wroth 

The  first  novel,  as  distinguished  from  more  or  less  connected  episodes, 
by  these  authors  since  their  charming  "  If  Youth  But  Knew  "  appeared 
some  three  years  ago. 

The  Pride  of  Jennico 

It  is  a  story  of  brisk  adventure  and  eager  love  amid  unaccustomed  scenes; 
and  it  is  told  with  such  freshness  and  sincerity  and  breezy  vigor  of  word 
and  sentiment  as  to  captivate  all  readers,  whether  critical  or  careless. 
"  This  lively  story  has  a  half-historic  flavor  which  adds  to  its  interest  .  .  . 
told  with  an  intensity  of  style  which  almost  takes  away  the  breath  of  the 
reader."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

Young  April 

It  is  a  delightful  story  of  a  runaway  month,  when  the  young  Duke,  care- 
fully reared  in  every  punctilio  of  his  position,  escapes  into  an  atmosphere 
of  freedom,  youth,  and  an  April  love,  that  knows  nothing  of  lords.  At 
the  end  it  is  a  very  grave  young  Duke  who  comes  into  his  title,  because 
"  noblesse  oblige,"  and  yet  one  who  sometimes  wears  with  all  his  quiet 
dignity  a  gently  reminiscent  smile. 

If  Youth  But  Knew 

"  One  of  the  most  spirited,  moving,  colorful,  and  fairly  enchanting  novels 
written  in  many  a  day  —  a  book  that  moves  one  to  be  optimistic  of  the 
quality  of  modern  fiction."  —  Republic  (St.  Louis). 

"My  Merry  Rockhurst" 

"  In  the  eight  stories  of  a  courtier  of  King  Charles  Second,  which  are  here 
gathered  together,  the  Castles  are  at  their  best,  reviving  all  the  fragrant 
charm  of  those  books,  like  'The  Pride  of  Jennico,'  in  which  they  first 
showed  an  instinct,  amounting  to  genius,  for  sunny  romances. 
"  It  is  not  the  romance  of  mere  intrigue  and  sword-play  that  the  authors 
make  their  leading  motive.  .  .  .  The  book  is  absorbing,  and  it  is,  into 
the  bargain,  as  spontaneous  in  feeling  as  it  is  artistic  in  execution." — 
New  York  Tribune. 

Flower  of  the  Orange  and 
Other  Tales  of  By-gone  Days 


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The  Choir  Invisible 

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"  One  reads  the  story  for  the  story's  sake,  and  then  re-reads  the  book  out 
of  pure  delight  in  its  beauty.  The  story  is  American  to  the  very  core.  .  .  . 
Mr.  Allen  stands  to-day  in  the  front  rank  of  American  novelists.  The 
Choir  Invisible  will  solidify  a  reputation  already  established  and  bring  into 
clear  light  his  rare  gifts  as  an  artist.  For  this  latest  story  is  as  genuine  a 
work  of  art  as  has  come  from  an  American  hand."  —  HAMILTON  MABIE 
in  The  Outlook. 

The  ReigTl  of  Law.    A  Tale  of  the  Kentucky  Hempfields 

"  Mr.  Allen  has  a  style  as  original  and  almost  as  perfectly  finished  as  Haw- 
thorne's, and  he  has  also  Hawthorne's  fondness  for  spiritual  suggestion  that 
makes  all  his  stories  rich  in  the  qualities  that  are  lacking  in  so  many  novels 
of  the  period.  ...  If  read  in  the  right  way,  it  cannot  fail  to  add  to  one's 
spiritual  possessions."  —  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

Summer  in  Arcady.    A  Tale  of  Nature 

"  This  story  by  James  Lane  Allen  is  one  of  the  gems  of  the  season.  It  is 
artistic  in  its  setting,  realistic  and  true  to  nature  and  life  in  its  descriptions, 
dramatic,  pathetic,  tragic,  in  its  incidents ;  indeed,  a  veritable  masterpiece 
that  must  become  classic.  It  is  difficult  to  give  an  outline  of  the  story ; 
it  is  one  of  the  stories  which  do  not  outline;  it  must  be  read."  —  Boston 
Daily  Advertiser. 

The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

"  It  may  be  that  The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture  will  live  and  become  a  part  of 
our  literature ;  it  certainly  will  live  far  beyond  the  allotted  term  of  present- 
day  fiction.  Our  principal  concern  is  that  it  is  a  notable  novel,  that  it  ranks 
high  in  the  range  of  American  and  English  fiction,  and  that  it  is  worth  the 
reading,  the  re-reading,  and  the  continuous  appreciation  of  those  who  care 
for  modern  literature  at  its  best."  —  By  E.  F.  E.  in  the  Boston  Transcript, 

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